Risen
by Sequoia
Summary: What if Jean and Phoenix had been one and the same? What if she had returned under her own power?
1. Introduction

Risen is half What If?, and half alternate dimension. Basically, it takes place in a retcon-free universe, where there's no such thing as a "Phoenix Force" or the Phoenix being a cosmic entity. Phoenix, the one who died on the moon of course, has always been far and away my favorite character; and the unbelievable way in which they completely and utterly destroyed the character and story of Jean Grey is a major sore spot with me. In my opinion, the best possible thing that Marvel could have done was to have left her dead, never brought Rachel back from DoFP, never created Maddie or CocoonWoman, etc; but, if they absolutely _had_ to bring her back, they could have at least done it the right way, without ruining anyone or anything. True, her death on the moon was extremely poignant and shouldn't be messed with; but I feel that if the ressurection were handled correctly, it could be pulled off without diminishing the impact of that tale too much.  
  
There are a few reasons why I chose to write this story instead of one where she simply stays dead. First, I just like to write Jean the way I feel she should be written. I feel like smashing my head into a wall anytime I read fanfics portraying her as the shrill, meddling den mother; and I want to offer something to counter that image. My short stories are a start; but this will allow me more room to work with her character. Secondly, it would not be totally illogical to bring her back, seeing as that's what Phoenix's do, and she had already done it once before in UXM#100-101. After her death in UXM#137, there were many instances of various characters wondering if she would come back and more than a few hints that she would; and I was very disappointed that nothing ever came of them. Lastly, the quickness of her death has always struck me as wrong. Yes, that was part of what made it so excellent and shocking; but I've always wondered how she would have handled what she did to the D'Bari if she had had more time. How would she have felt about the Inner Circle? Would she have called Xavier on his failure to help her? Would she get help in controlling her powers? How would being dead for a long period of time change her personality and views on things? What would she have done with her life, and how would all this affect those around her? This is the result, the story of how I think things would have gone had they only adhered to the original Phoenix explanation, which was simply that while piloting the Starcore shuttle, Jean broke through the barriers Xavier had placed in her mind, achieved her full potential which was then further boosted by the solar flares, ressurected herself, and changed her name and costume to match the flashier powers. She then went insane mostly because of her failure to deal with her higher power levels but with more than a little help from Mastermind; and she eventually developed a split personality. Easy, huh? :-)  
  
I begin the story about three months after the events in God Loves, Man Kills; and everything that occured between UXM#1 and GL,MK in the 616 universe also happened here, with a few minor changes that do not really affect anything.  
  
I changed the concept of Mr. Sinister, in that he's not Mr. Sinister, doesn't clone things, and could care less about the Summers'(or anyone else's) genes. Just go with it; it'll make sense. Promise.  
  
Lastly, I began writing this three or four years ago, during a "I'm sick to death of Rogue and Storm" phase – I've since seen the error of my ways and hope to make them shine in future stories. 


	2. One

Risen  
  
Chapter One  
  
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The stark, rugged landscape of Muir did not possess the same lush, verdant magic as his native Ireland; but Sean Cassidy nevertheless found the small island beautiful in it's isolated simplicity. Upon his first visit, he had thought it cold, lonely, and depressingly bare. Since then, he had learned to find pleasure in the clear patterns formed by the jutting cliffs, sparse vegetation, and rocky coastline. The loneliness had abated with time and the love of a good woman; and the cold - well, it was still cold; but now it was entirely dependent on the weather.  
  
This morning was especially frigid, even for northern Scotland in March, causing Sean to wish he could have stayed in bed with Moira, warm and content under the covers, instead of forcing himself to run the six miles he traversed every dawn. At forty-four, his exercise regimen was absolutely necessary to keep him in the shape he wanted; and luckily his years as an Interpol agent, police officer, and superhero had given him the ability and discipline needed to stick with it. However, he doubted that all the training in the world could make this more enjoyable. It was freezing.  
  
He slowed, breathing on his hands which were icy and numb even under his woolen gloves. The sun was making it's way slowly over the horizon, spreading rays of gold and pink through the steely gray sky; but it was still hours before there would be an appreciative difference in the temperature. He had reached the halfway mark of his journey, a large and jumbled pile of rocks that rested precariously at the edge of a cliff, and he stopped and faced the world as he did every morning. It gave him a sense of deep serenity to stand atop the rocks and look down at the roiling surf as it pounded the beach, to see the endless expanse of sea and sky, to feel the wind in his hair and against his face. It almost felt like he was flying, something he would always miss.  
  
After several minutes, he turned from the ocean and climbed down to the ground, reinvigorated and refreshed, more than ready to face the three miles back to Moira and a hot breakfast. He wrapped his scarf more closely around his neck and had crouched down to tighten the laces on his sneakers when a low moan from the other side of the rocks, barely heard over the bitter wind, caught his attention. It sounded human, and in pain.  
  
Concerned, he made his way quickly around the rocks, searching for the origin of the sound. In all likelihood it was simply a local drunk suffering from a hangover; but if someone was out in this weather and injured or sick he had to get them shelter and help as soon as possible. At first he didn't see anyone, then stopped in surprise. Lying half hidden in a little alcove formed by a large protruding rock was a young woman, naked and curled tightly into a ball, her face buried in her knees.  
  
She moaned again, and Sean rushed to her, taking off his coat and covering her with it. As he tilted her head back he gasped in shock at the sight of her face, his heart jumping to his throat and seeming to skip a beat as he stared in utter disbelief. It couldn't be her. It was impossible. She was dead. Wasn't she?  
  
"My God," he whispered when he was finally able to find his voice. "Jean?"  
  
[pic]  
  
Dawn on Muir was evening in Anchorage, Alaska, something Scott Summers had been looking forward to all day. It wasn't that he didn't like working for North Star, he thought as he safely landed his last flight and headed for the management office. Quite the opposite in fact. He knew he was a good pilot, he took pride in his work, and he enjoyed every second of it. But the last few weeks had been so hectic that he hadn't had two minutes to himself; and while for most of his life that had been the kind of situation he had actively searched for, he had been taking a slightly different approach to things lately. No drastic, sudden changes; he had just realized, with much prodding, that life was short and if he occasionally took a little time for himself no one would mind.  
  
To his surprise, the light was on in the office when he arrived. "Hi, Krissy," he said with a smile, "what are you still doing here? No hot date tonight?"  
  
"Me? Dateless? Never!" She tossed her head, blonde curls brushing her shoulders. "He's picking me up in five minutes, nosy." She sifted through the mess of papers on her desk and produced a short stack of envelopes wrapped in a rubberband.  
  
"Here's your paycheck, and your mail," she said, as she handed it to him and grabbed her coat. "Care to walk me out, Mr. Summers?"  
  
He acquiesced and took her arm as they walked out of the building, locking it behind them. The night air was brisk and chill, and they stamped their feet on the pavement to keep the blood moving as she breathlessly informed him of everything he had missed while away that she felt he should know. He never ceased to be amazed at the constant stream of chatter that came out of her mouth; and he did his best to keep up with it.  
  
At twenty, Krissy Maclean was the youngest employee at North Star; but one of the most respected and upwardly mobile. She had started out making coffee and answering the telephone, and now she was in charge of the books for the entire company. To some, she came off as something of a ditz, unorganized and sloppy, preoccupied solely with parties and boys and clothes; but her gift for numbers was truly astounding and she had never once let anyone down.  
  
She and Scott had become friends during the last few months, slipping easily into an older brother, younger sister relationship both were comfortable with. Actually, Krissy was comfortable with just about anyone; but Scott had been surprised at how quickly he had begun to let his guard down around her. They weren't close enough to share any deep secrets; but they enjoyed each other's company and frequently spent time together both during and after work. He had even taken her with him to Japan for Logan's wedding, a huge step for him. If she had noticed anything strange about his friends and the proceedings she hadn't mentioned it to him, preferring instead to talk at length about Tokyo's night life and the elegance of the bride.  
  
A motorcycle came roaring around the corner of the hanger and screeched to a halt in front of them. The driver, a dazed looking young man in his early twenties, nodded slackly at Scott as Krissy hopped on the back of the bike and waved to him as they pealed away, burning rubber. He chided himself briefly on not reminding her to wear a helmet, and then wandered off to find his car.  
  
Half an hour later found him at Cilantro's, a friendly restaurant with good food within walking distance of his apartment. He settled into a booth, ordered a steak and a couple beers and took out his mail. An electric bill. A late notice from the library. A postcard from Lee. A letter from Kitty.  
  
He set the bills to the side and read the postcard first. Lee was doing well, having put in a short stop in the Bahamas during an incredibly successful haul. She would be heading out to sea for the next two months straight, and just wanted to say 'hi' before she did. She passed along a few jokes she had heard since their last meeting and told him to smile more often.  
  
He missed Lee, she had been so good for him; but they had both realized that a serious relationship between the two of them would never work, so they had parted amicably, agreeing to see other people and remain friends. His food arrived, steaming hot, as he wondered if Lee was seeing other people.  
  
He opened Kitty's letter and slowly read the contents, relishing every word. Since he had moved to Alaska three months earlier, she had written him a biweekly letter updating him on everything that was going on in New York, be it little or small, with other members of the team adding postscripts and little notes, and he looked forward to them more than anything else. This letter told mostly of Logan and Mariko's return from their honeymoon, the attempt by Caliban to get Kitty to marry him and the subsequent fight with the Morlocks, the Professor's progress with helping Rogue learn to control her powers, Ororo and Peter's efforts at building a greenhouse on the mansion grounds, and the new New Mutant, Amara Juliana Olivians Aquilla, all detailed with Kitty's unique perspective. Her letters often made him laugh and cry and this one was no different.  
  
Homesick, he finished the letter and replaced it in the envelope, thinking about his life in Westchester. He missed it. He missed his friends, his family. There was nothing keeping him here in Anchorage, and everything pulling him back to the only place he'd ever truly thought of as home and the people who made it so much more.  
  
[pic]  
  
Ororo Munroe was pleased with herself. The tall, African beauty sat back on her heels and admired her handiwork; three rows of healthy plants successfully transferred from their pots into the raised bed, not a single one damaged. It had taken her the better part of the afternoon but she didn't mind, for she had accomplished something extremely important.  
  
Months ago, during the X-Men's lengthy stay in space, she had felt her connection with Mother Earth weaken. She had been even more terrified upon arriving back on Earth and realizing that not only was the connection severely weakened; but frayed through in parts. She was in danger of losing an integral, central aspect of herself and that imminent loss had caused her to behave uncharacteristically, lashing out at those around her, making poor leadership choices, her command over her powers becoming less and less every day. She had felt as though she no longer even recognized herself.  
  
Her identity crisis came to a head when, having led the X-Men to the Morlock tunnels to rescue Angel, she had agreed to fight Callisto to the death for Warren - an odd choice for a woman who was consecrated to the protection of all life, especially when there were so many other ways to resolve the situation. She had wounded Callisto badly; but refrained from striking a mortal blow, a decision that had saved her soul. Releasing Warren from his bonds, she had given leadership in both name and actuality back to Callisto, knowing that she could not lead the X-Men and the Morlocks without doing a disservice to them both.  
  
The worst had been over with then; but in some ways her troubles were just beginning. She had to find her way back to herself, understand the reasons why she had changed, and slowly rediscover the Ororo that used to be. With the help of her friends, old and new, she had finally resolved her inner turmoil and was re-establishing her link with the Earth and those around her.  
  
Peter, desperately homesick for his life as a farmer, had confided in her and together they had gone to the Professor who had given them a portion of the grounds to do with what they would. They had planned out a vegetable and flower garden to be completed when spring came; and also built a small greenhouse to start the seedlings and protect them in the colder weather since Ororo's attic was already filled. Things would have been easier and faster had she used her powers to their full advantage; but she found that the work was much more satisfying and fulfilling if she used only her natural skills while working with the plants. And that in turn had helped strengthen her burgeoning connection to the Earth.  
  
After wiping her hands on her dress, she tucked her long hair behind her ears and stood, feeling the multitude of surrounding life forces move through her. Everything was so alive, and once again she was a part of it.  
  
[pic]  
  
Alive. She was alive. At first she hadn't been sure, for when she had opened her eyes all she saw was white, seemingly endless and enveloping. Slowly, she had become aware of the reality of her body, the beating of her heart, the rhythmic sound of her breathing. Her senses had come into sharper focus; and the white had transformed into a ceiling, not nearly as vast as she had first imagined it.  
  
A steady, dull throb was coming from the crook of her right arm and she savored it even as she reached over with her left hand and pulled the IV free, not because she enjoyed the pain; but because it was sensation. And any sensation, no matter how unpleasant, was welcomed after so much nothingness.  
  
Sitting took a great deal of effort and several minutes; but once she was upright, the dizziness passed as though it had never existed and she reached her arms out in front of her face, gazing at them in cautious amazement, as if she expected them to disappear. Tentatively, she touched one arm to the other, then pushed the blankets down to see the rest of her body, running her hands lightly over her breasts, belly, and legs.  
  
Bolder now, she slid out of the bed, noticing the how cool and hard the floor was beneath her bare feet, and made her way to the adjoining bathroom and the mirror she knew would be in there. She tugged loose the gown she was wearing, and it fell unnoticed to her ankles as she studied her reflection, the intensity of her scrutiny mellowed only by the sense of awe she was feeling. Eyes, nose, mouth, ears, fingers, toes, belly button - everything appeared to be as it should. She breathed a sigh of relief and ran a hand through her flame colored hair, which was unruly and longer than she remembered. At least that was a mistake that could be easily fixed.  
  
"I'm alive." She spoke to herself quietly, testing her voice, her hearing. "I'm alive."  
  
A small thrill went through her mind, warm and satisfying. Her telepathy had become active, although it was being greatly dampened by an outside source. She turned toward the door and grinned. "Moira, I'm alive."  
  
"So I see." The Scotswoman crossed the room and handed Jean a robe which she put on somewhat reluctantly, as if by covering up she would somehow cease to exist. "Checking to see if everything was there, were you? Well, you can relax. You're as good as new, inside and out. Now get yourself back into bed; I have to talk to you, and I'm not going to do it while you stand here catching your death of cold."  
  
"Moira, I feel fine. Wonderful even. I --"  
  
"Lass, I said LIE DOWN."  
  
Jean opened her mouth to protest, thought the better of it, and sat back down on the bed, tucking her legs under her and pulling the blankets over her lap before Moira could tell her to do so. The older woman drew up a chair and looked at her intently.  
  
"How do you feel, Jean?" she asked.  
  
"I told you - very, very good. You don't seem surprised to see me."  
  
"Well, I've had three days to get used to the idea, child. What surprises me more than the fact that you seem to have ressurected yourself is that you survived your rebirth. If Sean hadn't found you when he did you'd be dead, this time of hypothermia." She crossed her arms and gave Jean a look that made her wish she could disappear. "What were you thinking, coming to a place as cold as Muir without protection from the elements, especially in such a weakened state? If you're going to come back to life and then pass out from exhaustion, completely defenseless, pick a more hospitable climate to do it in."  
  
Jean swallowed hard. "I'll keep that in mind for next time," she said sarcastically. "I missed you too."  
  
Moira's face softened. "Oh, Jean, I didn't mean to be so harsh. I was upset that we almost lost you. Again." She reached out and took her hand in her own. "I did miss you," she said quietly. "You were - are - like a daughter to me, and your death devastated me. Don't think for a moment that it didn't."  
  
"I know. I'm sorry too, I shouldn't have snapped at you. I guess I'm a bit out of practice dealing with people." She smiled faintly. "So how did everyone else handle my death?"  
  
"They coped. Some better than others. Jean, how long do you think you were gone for?" Moira asked, hoping the answer wasn't what she thought it would be.  
  
"I'm not sure," she replied, puzzled. "I think a few weeks; but somehow it feels longer. Maybe a couple months?"  
  
Moira sighed. "It's been almost a year and a half now. I'm sorry."  
  
"Oh." She was stunned by the news; trying to wrap her mind around it as she got out of bed and walked to the window, looking out at the wind whipping across the barren landscape.  
  
"I know it's a big thing to hear, Jean; and I wish I didn't have to be the one to tell you. Don't worry though, in no time at all you'll be a part of things again."  
  
"I guess." She turned, her eyes betraying her sudden confusion at her situation. "Moira, can you please turn off the power dampener? I feel like I'm suffocating."  
  
"Of course." She stood and went quickly to the door. "I only had it turned on because I didn't know what frame of mind you'd be in when you awoke, and I didn't want to take the chance that you'd panic and accidentally hurt yourself or someone else," she explained, entering a code into the computerized control panel.  
  
"Accidentally?" Jean smiled sadly. "You didn't think I'd still be evil, and put everyone in danger?"  
  
"Jean, you committed evil acts; but you were never, ever evil," Moira responded firmly. "And if I thought you posed any danger to anyone at all I'd have you in a containment room. I've run enough preliminary tests while you were unconscious to know what you're capable of; and my instincts count for something too." She pressed the final button, there was a whir and a click, and the dampener shut down.  
  
To Jean, it felt as though a dam burst in her head, sending a flood of thoughts feelings emotions images crashing through her mind like a tidal wave. She had been alone for so long that shielding was no longer an automatic reflex; she had forgotten the magnitude of psionic energy on Earth and the precautions a psi of her caliber must take. The sudden influx of information into her psyche made her sick to her stomach and she retched as she tried to limit the flow. It gradually slowed to a trickle; and she opened her eyes, attempting to get her breathing under control now that her mind was her own again.  
  
Moira knelt by her side, stroking her hair. "It's all right," she murmured. "I'm sorry, I should have known that would happen. I'll leave the dampener off, your mind will acclimate itself while you sleep."  
  
"But I'm not sleepy," Jean began, only to discover that she felt completely drained. She allowed Moira to lead her back over to the bed and tuck her in. "Moira?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"What did you want to talk to me about?" She stifled a yawn.  
  
"Nothing that cannot wait until morning."  
  
"Moira?  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Thank you."  
  
[pic]  
  
"Professor? Are you all right?"  
  
"Huh?" Charles snapped back to awareness with a jerk. Peter and Rogue were staring at him, concern evident on their faces.  
  
"I'm sorry, children. I thought I....felt something. It took me by surprise is all." He sat down at his desk. "You may proceed, if you're ready."  
  
They sat in in the center of the room, their chairs facing each other, Xavier on their left side. "Are you sure you want to do this, Petey?" Rogue asked nervously. "It ain't too late to back out, you know."  
  
The Russian boy nodded. "I am not afraid, Rogue. I know you can do it." His smile was so trusting and dopey that Rogue felt herself relax despite herself. After all, what could go wrong with the Professor right there? And she had been practicing every day for months. Of course she could do this.  
  
Confidence restored, she removed her gloves, took a deep breath, and reached out, taking Peter's bare hands in her own. Nothing happened. Her heart soared; but she managed to keep her emotions in check as she carefully activated her power, using it at it's lowest level. Time ticked past. Slowly, she absorbed Peter's power, feeling herself grow stronger, bigger, more....metallic. When she had aquired his power, she began to feed it back to him.  
  
When the transfer was completed she released his hands and sat back in her chair, a look of satisfaction on her face. "Well, how'd I do, Prof?"  
  
He was silent as he probed Peter's mind. She began to worry that she had done something wrong, something horrible, that she had damaged Peter for life; and she anxiously awaited the verdict.  
  
"Congratulations, Rogue, you have control over your powers again."  
  
To her surprise, and embarrassment, she burst into tears, causing Peter to become extremely perplexed. "What is the matter, Rogue?" he questioned. "Isn't this what you've wanted?"  
  
"Of course it is, you big oaf!" Her tears turned to laughter as she threw herself at him, hugging him with such strength that she knocked the wind from his lungs. She could hardly believe it - after all these months her life could finally go back to normal; and all because of a man she had once considered an enemy.  
  
She turned to Charles Xavier, speechless. She could think of no words adequate enough to thank this man who had taken her, a known terrorist, into his home against the wishes of his closest friends, and healed her. If asked, he would say that it was she that had healed herself, since her problem had been psychological in nature; but she knew that without him, she never would have been able to help herself.  
  
Hesitantly, she offered him her hand. "Thank you, sir. I am forever in your debt."  
  
He shook her hand, his grasp firm and strong. "Don't feel indebted to me, child. I merely helped you realize the way to help yourself."  
  
"I knew you were going to say that," she grinned. "Well, there's no reason for me to hang around here any more; I'd best be on my way. If you or the X- Men ever need a favor, anything at all, just ask. I'm at your disposal. And don't be worried about my telling secrets about you to Mystique and the Brotherhood. I'd never do that, same as I wouldn't help you against them."  
  
"Are you sure you have to go, Rogue?" Charles made a motion for Peter to leave and close the door, which he did. Rogue got the feeling that he knew what was going to be said anyway. "I have been giving this much thought recently, and have discussed it with the team as well. We would like to extend you an offer of membership to the X-Men."  
  
Rogue was floored. This was something she certainly hadn't expected. Although she had been living in the mansion for the last several months, she had never felt completely accepted, even after the events in Japan. There was a distance between her and the other inhabitants, a distrust. Things had been getting friendlier between her and several of them recently; but she couldn't imagine that these people who had been so begrudging when merely giving her help would now offer her the chance to be their equal. Their friend.  
  
"I...I don't know what to say. I'm honored, Professor."  
  
His face fell slightly. "But you're not going to accept, are you?"  
  
"No. I can't."  
  
"Do you mind my asking why?" He leaned against the edge of his desk. "I would really like to know."  
  
She felt guilty under his gaze. "I just can't. I came here for help, not to change allegiances. I'm not saying that I'm going to go back to being an evil mutant, because I don't think I am. My experiences here have changed me, for the better. But I don't belong here any more than I do with the Brotherhood. I want to belong here; but I can't say that I believe in your dream, as fine as it is, enough to fight for it, and maybe die for it. Maybe someday I will; but not now. Right now, I just want to go home to my mama. I want to tell her the good news about what Charles Xavier did for her daughter. I hope you can understand."  
  
[pic]  
  
"Adam? Adam, where are you?"  
  
To ten year old Adam Essex, the sights and sounds of New York City were much more interesting than his father's insistant calls, which echoed faintly in his ears. Unlike most small children, Adam had never been afraid of the dark, or unknown places, or strangers, so being alone at night in an unfamiliar metropolis was an exciting adventure for him. Provided his father wasn't too far behind, of course. Besides, his father caught brief glimpses of him, so it was more like a game of tag, something he rarely got to play at home, since his parents frowned upon that kind of physical exertion. He had a weak constitution they said, he had to conserve his energy.  
  
As he crossed the street and headed for the subway, he began to think that maybe his parents were right. He was out of breath. And he had to go to the bathroom. He turned and looked back across the street to where his father was waiting for the light to change, and waved, signalling that his game was over, he wouldn't run anymore. But he still had to pee; and the light didn't look like it was going to change anytime soon, so he made his way down into the subway.  
  
He paid the fare from the spending money he had been given, and tromped down to the restrooms, groaning in dispair as he saw the 'Out of Order' sign slapped up on the men's room door.  
  
He hopped up and down as he debated what to do. The sign was probably up there for a good reason. It could be really yucky in there. On the other hand, he knew he wouldn't be able to hold it until he found another bathroom, and he wouldn't use the ladies room. Only baby boys went into the ladies room.  
  
The decision made by his bladder and pride, he held his nose and tenatively opened to door to the men's room, stepping inside. It was dark and smelly, the floor covered in slimey wetness that squished under his sneakers. He reached for the light switch and was unable to find it; but his eyes began to grow accustomed to the lack of light. He cautiously made his way over to where the urinals should be, being careful not to slip on the floor, although he probably could have gone right where he stood, and no one would have known the difference.  
  
He relieved himself, thanked the Lord that he had not wet his pants, and had turned to leave when a rustling noise came from behind him. It's just a rat, he tried to reassure himself, just a big, old, smelly rat who's more afraid of you than you are of him. Just get out into the light, and you'll be fine. He heard a louder noise, a shuffling this time, and what sounded like a match lighting. Against his better judgement, he turned around to see who was there and shrieked.  
  
Standing about three yards in front of him, illuminated only by the flickering light of a single match was something straight out of a nightmare. The man, if it was a man, was grotesquely disfigured, with a rotting face that appeared to have been eaten away by leprosy and a gnarled hand that had sharp claws for fingers. Adam froze as the thing stepped towards him.  
  
"Does the pretty, pretty boy have something to eat?" At the sound of the rasping, skeletal voice Adam screamed and spun around, frantically trying to get to the door, imagining he could feel the thing's talons grasping hold of his jeans and tearing at them.  
  
He was reaching out to grab the door handle when his shoes hit a particularly slick spot and he fell, striking his head against the floor and cracking his skull. Adam Essex's last thought was that all his friends had been right. There were monsters in the dark. 


	3. Two

Risen  
  
Chapter Two  
  
  
  
~~I stand atop a building, a building amidst countless others, elevated high above all else, keeping me forever alone. When the night comes it is like ink, thick and consummate, obscuring all faults as it spreads slow as molassas over the cityscape's desolate glory, hiding it from my eyes. I want to go into that absolute darkness, it calls me, it is where I belong. I open myself up to it, welcoming it into my soul.  
  
It will make me perfect.  
  
No!  
  
It will destroy me.  
  
I do not care.~~  
  
Jean awoke with a gasp, the last remnants of her dream slipping away even as she reached for them. It was unlike her not to remember her dreams; but not unheard of, so with a lazy yawn she stretched her body and slid out of bed.  
  
She dallied in the shower, the feel of the hot water against her bare skin and in her hair was delightful and much missed. The world was miraculously fresh and new, and everything was just waiting to be experienced again.  
  
She took her time drying, brushing, and braiding her hair. She used the toothbrush that had been laid out for her and dressed in the clothes that Moira had left on the chair next to the bed. Faded blue jeans, dark green sweater, undergarments. She recognized the clothing as some that she had left behind on Muir after her last stay; and she remembered being disappointed that she could not find the sweater upon her return to Westchester. It had been one of her favorites.  
  
She noticed that the cuffs were beginning to fray with age, and with barely a thought she rearranged their molecules, tightening the stitches, returning the resilience to the cloth. Her power did not give her any trouble at all; in fact, it was even easier than she remembered. The feeling of pleasure tinged with fear she received from using it was the same; but the constant need to tap into more was satiated. At least for now. With a statisfied smile she left her room and went to find Moira and Sean.  
  
[pic]  
  
"Are you ready, Mr. Essex?"  
  
"It's Dr. Essex, actually," he replied, his crisp, British accent strained. Immediately he was ashamed. Reminding people he was a doctor was a pompous habit he had picked up; and in no way suitable here and now. They probably thought he was more concerned about his prestige than his own son, something he had been accused of many times before.  
  
If they thought less of him it didn't show on their faces. The elderly coroner and the young police officer that had accompanied him were looking down at him with nothing more than concern and sympathy as they waited for an answer. Nathaniel Essex, more frightened than he had ever been in his entire life, got to his feet. "I'm ready," he said unsteadily, his mouth dry.  
  
They entered the morgue and walked to the back in silence through the rows of dead. On the table, covered by a sheet, was the small form of a child. They stood next to it and the coroner pulled the sheet down, revealing the boy's face.  
  
"Oh, God, oh God," Nathaniel shuddered, his strength draining from him as he saw his son so cold and still.  
  
The police officer cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, sir," he said, somewhat embarrassed. "You have to make definate identification. Is this boy Adam Essex, your son?"  
  
"Yes," he choked, "it is." He turned away from the body, not wanting to remember his only child like that. Oh, God, what was he going to tell Rebecca? This would kill her. And she would blame him. Why shouldn't she? It was his fault. It was all his fault. His and one other's. Human belongings had been found in the restroom of the subway, and Nathaniel was willing to bet his life that whoever owned them was responsible for Adam's fate. And he was willing to give his soul to have that person punished.  
  
[pic]  
  
The strong and pleasant aromas of brewing coffee, frying bacon, and simmering oatmeal lured Jean to the kitchen where she found Sean busy at the stove and Moira absorbed in a stack of newspapers at the heavy wooden table. They looked up as she entered, and Sean caught her in a tight hug.  
  
"I'm so happy to see you well, lass," he said, "you have no idea."  
  
She returned his embrace. "I missed you, Sean," she smiled, "both you and your cooking."  
  
"Hungry?"  
  
"Famished." She sat at the table across from Moira as he poured her a cup of coffee and refilled Moira's mug.  
  
Moira was looking at her curiously. "You're hungry?"  
  
"Yes. Why, shouldn't I be?"  
  
"Well, I'm not going to argue with what your body is telling you; but no, you shouldn't be hungry. Your power levels are the same as they were before you lost control, when you didn't need to eat, drink, breathe, or keep warm to survive."  
  
Jean stirred her coffee thoughtfully. "Is it possible that my powers could be at the level where those things aren't absolutely necessary; but because of some other reason, I feel that they are?"  
  
Sean placed a plate of bacon on the table. "What kind of reason?"  
  
"Because I want them to be?" She picked up a slice of bacon and nibbled on the end. "Before, I didn't have to do those things, although most of the time I still did, because I liked to or wanted to, because I was used to it and it was a reminder that I was human."  
  
"And now you feel like you have to do those things?" Sean asked as he joined them at the table with three bowls of steaming oatmeal. He poured a splash of cream into his coffee. "Even though you know that you don't have to do them?"  
  
Jean looked confused. "I guess so. It's strange. A part of my mind knows that if I don't eat, I'll be fine; but then my body feels like it's starving, and another part of my mind is telling me I must eat, and breathe, and everything else. The only reason I can think of for why that would be is because I wanted it that way, and so it happened. Pass the brown sugar, please."  
  
Moira handed her the small blue and cream colored sugar bowl. "Jean, what do you mean, 'I wanted it that way, and so it happened'? Are you saying that when you came back to life, you altered your perception of your powers in some way?"  
  
"That's exactly what I'm saying; but I can't be sure that's exactly what happened."  
  
"Don't you remember what happened? How you came back? That was part of what I wanted to speak to you about last night - just how did you come back to life?" Moira looked at her quizzically.  
  
"I remember the nothingness. I remember wanting to come back, wanting another chance at life. I remember thinking about how I could rebuild my body and how I could fix it so that my powers were under control; but I don't remember actually doing any of those things." She averted her eyes. "It's like before, on the shuttle, only worse. I died and I brought myself back to life, I know I did, but I'm not sure how I did it; and I'm not sure I want to."  
  
"Think back to when you died, on the moon," Moira replied. "Did you do anything then that might have--"  
  
"I don't want to talk about that," Jean interrupted, her voice shaking.  
  
"I'm sorry," Moira apologized. "You were being so open about everything else, I thought it would be okay to discuss that."  
  
"Well, it's not. I'll tell you everything I know about what happened after I died, you can run all the tests you want; but I don't want to talk about what happened on the moon, or before."  
  
Sean patted her hand. "All right, we won't make you talk about it now; but Jean, I think it would be a good idea if you talked to someone about the things that happened. You can't ignore it, or it will eat you up inside; and you can't run from it, or you'll never learn from it. Moira and I are both here for you, and I'm sure that your friends and Charles will be too, once they find out you're alive."  
  
She flinched slightly at the sound of the Professor's name. "You haven't told Charles yet? Why not?"  
  
Moira sipped her coffee. "Lilandra is staying with him and I didn't want to take the chance that she would act first and think later, seeing as how she has a habit of doing that where you're involved; and you were in no shape to defend yourself. As soon as she leaves, I'll tell him. Sean and I were even thinking about going in person, since we have some news of our own to tell him as well." She glanced pointedly at her right hand and the simple ring that adorned her fourth finger.  
  
"You two are getting married?!" Jean exclaimed, her mood instantly lightened. "That's wonderful! I'm so happy for you!" She got up from the table and hugged them both. "Did you set a date?"  
  
"Not anything specific; but we were thinking about June of this year," Moira replied. "Logan's wedding made us realize that we weren't getting any younger; and there really isn't any reason why we shouldn't get married."  
  
"Who's Logan?" Jean asked, as she took another mouthful of oatmeal.  
  
Sean and Moira exchanged a puzzled look, then understanding dawned on Sean's face. "Logan is Wolverine," he explained, "he didn't reveal his real name until after you were gone."  
  
Much to her chagrin, Jean felt a stab of jealousy. "That's nice," she said, trying to keep her voice neutral. "So, who did he marry?"  
  
"A simply lovely woman by the name of Mariko Yashida, a Japanese noblewoman. She and Logan are almost exact opposites, but it works."  
  
"She's Sunfire's cousin?" she asked, the name Yashida ringing a bell.  
  
"Yes." Sean refilled his cup, offered to do the same for her, and she shook her head. She had been trying not to think about Scott, afraid to discover that he was dead. Or married. She knew that she could get on with her life without him; but she hoped that that wouldn't be necessary. All the talk of weddings had brought up the memory of his proposal to her, after she had fought the X-Men at her parent's home, and the part of her that was still sane had helped Charles defeat the rest of her mind. How desperate she had been then, how scared. There had been moments when she had even believed the Phoenix part of herself to be a different person, in order to dissassociate herself from the horrible things she had done. Scott knew the truth though, he had always known, and through it all he had stood by her. She knew that the love he felt for her, and she for him, could survive death; but would it survive rebirth?  
  
She cleared her throat. "What about Scott?" she asked hesitantly. "How has he been doing?"  
  
"You'll have to ask him how he's been doing; but I can tell you what he's been doing," Sean replied as he carried his bowl to the sink. "He left the X-Men after what happened to you, worked on a fishing boat for awhile, then caught up with the team again. For the last three months he's been working for his family's airline in Alaska."  
  
"His family?" she said casually, hoping that it simply meant he had discovered Corsair was his father.  
  
"It turns out that Corsair, of the Starjammers, is actually Christopher Summers, Scott's father! Can you believe that? Scott and Alex were so happy to find out that their father is alive and healthy; and they even have grandparents now."  
  
Jean felt guilty. She hoped Scott didn't know she had known; or if he did, he had forgiven her. Ororo had been right, she should never have kept that secret from him; but she had given her word, and that had to mean something. "That's amazing," she said, hoping she sounded amazed. "What about Ororo, and Kurt? And Peter?"  
  
Moira pushed her chair back and stood up. "There's plenty of time for you to get caught up with what's been going on, lass. I promise you'll be filled in on everything. For now, I want to run those tests you said you'd allow."  
  
[pic]  
  
Logan was not adjusting well to married life. Even though he loved Mariko more than anything in the world, he couldn't get used to the domestic aspect of their new life together. For instance, he didn't expect to be asked where he was going, and he felt terrible if he gave Mariko his standard answer, which was simply, "out." He didn't always know when he'd be back and he didn't want to disappoint her with no answer, or a false one. He didn't like the guilt she unknowingly made him feel when she sweetly reminded him not to smoke in the house, or not to drink too much, even though she knew his healing factor would prevent any damage. Most of all, he didn't appreciate how overprotective she was, although he knew it was just a reflex for her and she was trying to make this work as much as he was.  
  
The truth of the matter was simple. He was afraid of failing Mariko as a husband; and he felt he was already on that path, only a little over a month after their wedding and despite all her reassurances that they would be fine. He still could not believe that this wonderful, gentle woman had married him; and he didn't know what he'd do if he ever lost her. She was his calming center, his sanity, his rock of support. For her sake, he was willing to do whatever it took to be the best husband possible. Unfortunately, old habits were hard to break, especially when he wanted to break them in such a way that his sense of self wasn't lost. He hoped he could do it. For Mariko.  
  
"Logan?"  
  
He broke from his reverie and turned to see his bride standing behind him. God, she was beautiful.  
  
"What is it, Miko?" She looked as excited as a child as she led him to a chair and sat him down, kneeling at his feet.  
  
"I have a surprise for you," she beamed.  
  
"I certainly hope it's a good surprise," he teased  
  
She giggled demurely. "Yes, it is a good surprise, my love." She took his hands in hers and her dark eyes locked on his blue ones. "Logan, you are going to be a father."  
  
He sat stunned for a moment, and then his mind began reeling. A father? Of a baby? Him? That was more preposterous than the thought of him as a husband. He looked down at his wife who was watching him expectantly for a reaction, stopped thinking about all the reasons why he couldn't be a father, and came to the realization that this single piece of news made him happier than he had ever been in his entire life, with the exception of the day Mariko had married him. All worries melted into the background as he thought about what this meant. He was going to be a father! He reached down and pulled her into his arms, kissing her passionately.  
  
When their kiss broke he found he was grinning like an idiot. "You're pregnant?" he asked, wanting to hear it again and again.  
  
"Yes," she laughed. "I am."  
  
"How much? When's the baby due?" He put a hand on her flat belly, as if by some miracle he would be able to feel the child so soon.  
  
"I am about a month along. She will be born in October."  
  
"She? How do you know we won't have a son?" he pulled her onto his lap and she kissed him again.  
  
"No, we will have a daughter. I am sure," she responded in her precise English. They had spoken only Japanese for the beginning of their relationship; but once she had expressed an interest in learning English, they had spoken almost nothing else. She was very proud of how much she had accomplished in so short a time. So was he.  
  
The doorbell rang, breaking the perfection of the moment, and Logan considered ignoring it. After almost four years of living in Xavier's mansion with many other people, he still wasn't used to living alone with Mariko in their New York City penthouse. Not that he was complaining, by any means. It was just that he was used to having someone else answer the bell if he was busy.  
  
With a sigh he got up and went to the door. "This had better be good," he growled as he opened it.  
  
"Did we come at a bad time?" Kitty asked, trying to peer around him to get a look at the interior of his place.  
  
"Kitty and I were in the neighborhood, and we thought we would stop by and see if you were here." Kurt's smile widened. "I brought beer," he said, holding up a paper bag.  
  
"Well, in that case, come on in." He was in too good of a mood not to share it with his two best friends. Especially if they came bearing beer.  
  
[pic]  
  
In Emma Frost's mind, the Frolicking Tulip Mental Institution in Concord, New Hampshire was staffed with nothing but incompetents. She wasn't surprised, of course. Most of the time she thought that the whole damn world was incompetent.  
  
There were some real prizes here though. She didn't even have to use her powers on some of them, just let them stare at her cleavage for a minute and they'd tell her anything she wanted to know. Pathetic.  
  
She figured that they didn't have to be that intelligent to wipe drool off the faces of the idiots and crazies and hand out basket weaving supplies; but they should at least know enough to not let just anyone waltz in and see a patient who was supposed to have no visitors. Leave it to Pierce to pick a place as unprofessional as this to stash their former contemporary.  
  
She yawned in boredom, gave a disdainful look to the orderly who was currently enraptured with her breasts, and asked him again what room Jason Wyngarde was in, and if he could please unlock it for her? Her tone of voice made it abundantly clear that she would be ever so grateful to him; and he hurried down to the end of the hall and opened a door. Cretin, she thought. She didn't like how on edge institutions made her; but it was fun to play with the employees. She'd give him something to remember her by, all right. A splitting headache.  
  
She went into Jason's room and locked the door behind her, giving a telepathic suggestion to the orderly that he was feeling sick and needed to go lie down right away. Jason was sitting in a chair by the window, blanket pulled up over his legs, eyes staring blankly, spittle on his chin. They couldn't even do that part of their job right, she thought in disgust as she took out a tissue and wiped it away so she wouldn't have to look at it.  
  
"My God, Jason, you look like hell." He really did. Without his illusion power he was a skinny, sickly, pale old man who appeared to be closer to death than life. The loss of mental functions didn't help either.  
  
"Well," she sighed, "let's get started. I need you at least coherent if you're going to be any use to me." She bent her head and concentrated, entering his broken mind and slowly, carefully, putting the pieces back together.  
  
[pic]  
  
"I have good news," Sean announced with a smile as Jean and Moira arrived home from their weekend expedition to Edinburgh, which had been a reward for the grueling week of tests and questions. Exhausted, the women flopped onto the couch, shopping bags strewn on the floor.  
  
"You like my new haircut, Sean?" Jean asked, running her hand through the shorter, stylish cut that framed her face and brushed against her shoulder blades.  
  
"It's lovely, lass. Did you two buy out the entire town?" he inquired, gazing in astonishment at the packages.  
  
"I don't know what Moira's excuse is; but I just came back from the dead. A girl has to celebrate."  
  
"Big deal. I'm getting married." They laughed as Sean waded through their purchases and sat between them, an arm around them both.  
  
"Ladies, I just got off the telephone with young Sam Guthrie of the New Mutants. It seems that Lilandra has left the planet; and as an added bonus, Scott is coming home. I think it's high time we paid a visit to Westchester. 


	4. Three

Risen  
  
Chapter Three  
  
~Bad dreams in the night  
  
They told me I was going to lose the fight  
  
Leave behind my wuthering, wuthering  
  
Wuthering Heights.  
  
Oh it gets dark, it gets lonely  
  
On the other side from you  
  
Too long I roam in the night  
  
I'm coming back to his side to put it right  
  
I'm coming home to wuthering, wuthering  
  
Wuthering Heights.  
  
Heathcliff, it's me, Cathy come home  
  
I'm so cold, let me in-a-your window  
  
Heathcliff, it's me, Cathy come home  
  
I'm so cold~  
  
~Kate Bush  
  
The afternoon sun was warm and mellow, reflecting off of the clear waters of the small lake and absorbing into the aging wood of the dock where Scott sat, lost in thought. He knew he had done the right thing when he quit North Star and moved back to Westchester; but now that he was actually here, the next step in his life wasn't as clear as it had been.  
  
He sighed and watched the ripples spread outward from the spot where a fish had jumped up for it's lunch. Circles in the water, mimicking the circles of his life for close to the last two years. Leave the X-Men, come back. Leave, come back. And so on.  
  
He left because of all it had cost him, because of disagreements with Charles, because he had discovered he wanted more out of life. Somehow, he always wound up back at this house, as if it were meant to be.  
  
It was good to be back though, with friends, people with whom he could be completely comfortable and who understood him. It was Charles' assumption that he was going to become a full-time member again that was bothering him. Originally, the X-Men had given him purpose, meaning, respect, direction. Now he found that he could - and did - find those things without them. He still believed in the dream with all of his heart; and would fight for it until the day he died, but he wasn't only Cyclops. Scott Summers needed to fit in somewhere as well; and now that he wasn't absolutely necessary to the team - his role as leader filled by Ororo - he could figure out exactly where that was.  
  
He stood and stuffed his hands in his pockets as the wind suddenly gusted, ruffling his hair and quickening the lapping of the water against the shore and dock. The muted clicking of heels on wood came from behind him and he froze as the sound of the walk registered in his ears. It was slow, and slightly hesitant; but he would recognize it anywhere, anytime, as he would anything that was her's.  
  
His heart pounding, he tried to turn and face her; but he feared that if he did she would not be there after all, or that his mind was playing tricks on him, like what had happened with D'Spayre. And although he would never admit it, especially to himself, a part of him was afraid that she would be real.  
  
He took a deep breath and turned.  
  
"Jean." It was a statement, not a question, for as soon as he saw her all doubts were driven from his mind. By some miracle she was alive, standing before him. An answered prayer.  
  
"Scott." He embraced the sound of her voice in his ears, the sound of her saying his name, even though it brought up the memory of the last time she had spoken it, when she had died by her own hand as he stood by, helpless to stop her.  
  
He had seen her die, her body disintegrated before his eyes. He had heard her scream. He had felt his soul torn in two. And yet, despite all that, he had never truly accepted that it was final, never given up the faint hope that someday she would find a way to return from the ashes, as she had done on the shuttle. And so, with all the emotions suddenly coursing through him, threatening to overwhelm him, disbelief was not among them.  
  
She was crying. Without a word he took her in his arms and they sank to the dock, holding each other close as the rest of the world disappeared.  
  
[pic]  
  
"Feeling better, Jason?"  
  
"Yes. What do you want?" He hobbled across the room, leaning heavily on his cane, and collapsed into a chair across from Emma's desk.  
  
She laughed coldly. "You show very little respect for the woman who gave you your life back." She seated herself on the edge of the desk and looked down at him. "I have been going out of my way to be nice to you, Jason. Haven't I healed most of your mind? Haven't I given you the best medical care possible? Haven't I promised you I'll pave the way for your return to the Inner Circle?"  
  
He nodded uncomfortably under her gaze. It was sad, really, he was so proud and conceited, trying so hard to stand up to her; but failing miserably. Just you wait, you bitch, he thought. When I'm stronger, I'll --  
  
"You'll what, Jason?" She leaned forward, her eyes mere inches from his. "If I even hear you think something like that about me again, it'll be the last thing your inferior brain will ever do. What I have fixed, I can undo. Do you understand me?"  
  
"Yes," he replied curtly.  
  
"Good." Her smile was like a snake. "I called you here because I need your help on a little project."  
  
"What does this project involve?" He lit a cigarette.  
  
"Power."  
  
"Go on."  
  
"Revenge."  
  
"Against whom?"  
  
"Phoenix."  
  
"Tell me more, Emma."  
  
[pic]  
  
"HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME?!" Charles demanded, slamming his hand against the wall of his study.  
  
"Don't you raise your voice to me, Charles Xavier. Don't assume I'm wrong before you even bother to find out why I didn't tell you right away," Moira replied angrily. Sean, leaning against the far wall, tried to stay out of it.  
  
Xavier took a deep breath. "All right, Moira, Sean, WHY have you kept the knowledge that Jean was alive from me for the last ten days? Didn't you feel I had the right to know?"  
  
"Of course you had the right to know, Charley; but Lilandra did not. Tell me that if I had told you, you wouldn't have told her. Truthfully."  
  
"Lilandra and I do not keep secrets from each other." He stared out the window across the clear expanse of lawn down to the lake. He could see Scott and Jean sitting together on the dock; but restrained himself from reaching out to her telepathically. She was obviously shielding herself from him and he was afraid to discover that she blamed him for what had happened to her. As he blamed himself.  
  
"And what would Lilandra have done when you told her?" Moira questioned. "She would have ordered Jean killed before she regained her strength, and you know it."  
  
"Maybe that would have been the best thing," he said quietly.  
  
"How could you even think that, Charles?"  
  
"Have you forgotten what happened last time, Moira? Maybe it would have been better to prevent that from happening again, for Jean's sake as much as everyone else's."  
  
"It isn't going to happen again! What do you think we've been doing for the last ten days? Twiddling our thumbs while waiting to ask The Great Professor Xavier his lofty opinion on the matter? Charley, your opinion does matter, very much; but I have run every test at least twice, asked her every question, and thought a great deal about this. Dark Phoenix is NOT inevitable. Every factor that contributed to her snapping can be eliminated or drastically reduced. I'm not saying it's impossible; but with the right precautions it's extremely unlikely. Jean has already begun to take steps in the right direction; and you want to condemn her?"  
  
"Of course not. I'm sorry, this is just such a shock." He sat down at his desk, his head in his hands. "I don't want to fail her again, Moira."  
  
She laid a hand comfortingly on his shoulder. "I know you don't, Charley. You have a second chance. Use it."  
  
[pic]  
  
One Hundred Years Of Solitude, Chronicle Of A Death Foretold, Love In The Time Of Cholera. Those certainly sound like cheerful stories, Kurt Wagner thought to himself as he browsed through the shelves of used and worn books. Aha! Here was the perfect one for him - Of Love And Other Demons. He shook his head as he flipped through the pages to see if any were missing. Amanda certainly did have depressing tastes in novels. She had been pestering him to read something by Marquez, and since he was more than willing to do whatever it took to make his love happy, this sunny Saturday afternoon found him at the Book Nook instead of Harry's, where he usually waited for Kitty and Illyana to be done their dance lesson with Stevie.  
  
He had just rounded the corner on his way to the register when he was blindsided from above by a large stack of books and almost knocked to the ground.  
  
"Oh, gosh, I'm so sorry!" For a dazed second he thought that perhaps the books were talking to him, then realized that the throaty voice belonged to a young woman who was peering down at him from over the top of the shelves. It was a good thing he hadn't automatically teleported, he thought, he would have scared her silly.  
  
She hurried down from her ladder and over to him, genuine concern in her dark eyes. "Are you all right?"  
  
He rubbed his shoulder where a particularly large tome had landed and smiled reassuringly. "I think I'll live."  
  
"Are you sure? I mean, do you want some ice? I'm really sorry, I was trying to fit too many books up on that shelf, I should have known better. Did you hurt your head?" She reached out and took his hand, leading him to the front of the store where she produced a bottle of aspirin and an unopened bottle of spring water. "Here, take some, please."  
  
He complied, not having the heart to tell her that on an average day, he received worse than this in the Danger Room. Not that he could even tell her that if he wanted to. Sometimes all this cloak and dagger, secret identity stuff became tiresome. Just once he'd like to be able to use the fact that he was a superhero to attract a woman, he thought jokingly, then stopped cold. What was he doing, thinking about finding other women when he had Amanda? Not other women, just this one. There was something about her that drove all thoughts of the lovely Miss Sefton from his mind.  
  
{Nightcrawler, you and Shadowcat are needed at the mansion immediately for an emergency meeting of the team.}  
  
{Yes, Professor.}  
  
He grinned disarmingly and kissed the woman's hand with flourish. "Thank you for your concern, madam; but while it is much appreciated, I assure you it is not warrented. Unfortunately, I must run. It has been a pleasure."  
  
"But--  
  
Kurt was already headed next door to Stevie Hunter's dance studio, a spring in his step. Few people realized that making an exit could be just as important as making an entrance.  
  
[pic]  
  
Normally, Jean's constant fidgeting would be driving Scott to distraction; but so happy was he just to have her alive and here that he was hardly bothered as she paced quickly up and down the length of the common room. The rest of the team should be convening shortly, her presence having been psionically masked from them by herself and Charles for the last hour or so, and she was worried as to how they would react. Yes, they had fought for her even after all the atrocities she had committed; but that was to save her life. Deciding whether or not to trust her again as a friend, or even a human being, was an entirely different matter.  
  
The reunion with Scott was easier and happier than she could have imagined; but with Charles it had been a little harder. He was overjoyed to see her, and she him, but their meeting was tinged with the dark cloud of unspoken feelings, withheld emotions, on both their parts. They would deal with their personal feelings later, she supposed, after everything else had been worked out.  
  
She paused at the window, pressing her palm against the cool glass pane as she watched a jeep pull into the drive and Logan get out and walk toward the door. This was going to be hard; and that knowledge didn't make it any easier. She had to prove that she was deserving of a second chance, that she was stable, and that she would stay that way. The hardest part would be trying to justify what she had done before, not only because she would have to talk about it; but because in her heart of hearts she knew it could never be truly justified, no matter what the extenuating circumstances. Some things were simply unforgivable.  
  
"It's going to be okay." Scott put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She appreciated his support; but it didn't calm the butterflies fluttering around her stomach. "Moira, Sean, and I are completely behind you and Charles is giving you a chance. So will they."  
  
Oh, Scott, she thought. You don't even know you have doubts about me, do you?  
  
"Thank you," she said, leaning back against him. "I need you now. More than you know."  
  
[pic]  
  
"I appreciate your swiftness in arriving," Charles announced as he seated himself behind his desk. "Now that you're all here, I have some rather shocking news to share with you; and decisions must be made."  
  
Logan stood up with a start. "Where is she?"  
  
"Who?" Peter asked.  
  
"Jean. She was here. Recently. Her scent's still fresh." He looked at Charles piercingly. "Where is she?"  
  
Ororo gasped audibly. "Professor, is Logan correct? Has Jean returned somehow?"  
  
"...Yes. She's in the common room--"  
  
Logan crossed the room swiftly, yanking open the door and heading down the hall, Ororo on his heels; the rest of the team still sitting in shocked silence.  
  
[pic]  
  
Already visibly edgy, Jean jumped as the heavy door slammed open. Logan strode purposefully over to her, eyes blazing.  
  
"Jeannie?"  
  
She nodded silently, waiting for him to determine in his mind if she was truly who she appeared to be. It took him less than a minute. He reached down and took her hands in his, squeezing them tightly. "It is you."  
  
"Yes." She felt the tears beginning to well and bit her lip, trying to hold them back.  
  
"Darlin', how?"  
  
"It's a little complicated. Moira will explain most of it." She smiled softly over his shoulder. "Hello, Ororo."  
  
"Goddess, Jean, you--" she broke off, speechless, as she stared at the other woman, who approached her slowly and reached out her arms.  
  
"I missed you so very much, Ororo."  
  
"And I you, my friend," she whispered as they embraced. Jean had been her best friend, her first in this strange, new land; and they had grown so close that they were sisters, in every way but blood. Having her back, the void that had been left in her heart filled, seemed too good to be true.  
  
Kurt appeared at the door, followed closely by Peter. "I do not believe it," the young Russian breathed. "Jean, you are dead."  
  
"She certainly doesn't appear to be any longer," Kurt said as he came into the room, astonishment in his voice. "Jean, I...I'm so happy you're here!" She laughed as they hugged, her nervousness beginning to melt away. Maybe things would work out after all.  
  
She greeted Peter, who was still standing dumbstruck; and then noticed the young girl leaning against the door frame, who was regarding her with a mixture of suspicion and wonder.  
  
"I remember you. You're Kitty Pryde." The memory of her first meeting with the girl sent a multitude of unwanted ones washing through her mind, memories of a descent into madness that had just begun it's final, frenzied stage; and she pushed the images and emotions back, burying them deeper than before. She couldn't think of them. She couldn't deal with them. It hurt too much.  
  
[pic]  
  
The London pub was dark and seedy, lit only by the bloody, smoke veiled light emanating from cheap red table lamps. A low, pulsating beat from the jukebox filled Nathaniel's ears, contrasting with the rapid staccato of his heart.  
  
His eyes flickered nervously around the room, trying intently to catch sight of the man he was meeting. A futile exercise, of course, since he knew nothing about him except his last name and that he was a member of a government organization looking for some freelance work; but it gave him something to do while he waited.  
  
He was just about to give in to the gnawing doubts at the back of his mind and leave when a scruffy, thirtyish man wearing a wrinkled black suit and apparently suffering from a hangover stumbled over to his table, dragging deeply on a cigarette.  
  
"Dr. Essex? Sorry I'm late." He extended his hand, leaving the cigarette dangling limply between his lips. "Goddamn girlfriend left me again," he muttered under his breath as he sat down.  
  
"I...I'm sorry to hear that." Nathaniel shifted uneasily. He was beginning to doubt this man's ability to find his way home after dark, much less find out who had been responsible for Adam's death.  
  
As if he could read his mind, the man gave what could have been construed as a smile if you looked at it the right way and announced, "I'm not as inept as I look, Doctor. Just having a bad few months is all. I'm hoping that this job you say you want done can turn things around for me; especially if you're not lying about how much you're willing to pay for this information."  
  
"I don't lie, Mr. Wisdom," Nathaniel answered coldly. "Ten thousand if you agree to take the job. Twenty-five more when you deliver to me the name and location of the person or persons who killed my son."  
  
"That sounds reasonable. Just so you know upfront - if you want this 'person or persons' taken care of, you'll have to look elsewhere. I don't do that on my side projects any more; although if it comes to that, I can give you the names of a few who wouldn't mind a little extra income." 


	5. Four

Risen  
  
Chapter Four  
  
Â   
  
Well now, everything dies, baby, that's a fact  
  
but maybe everything that dies someday comes back  
  
~Bruce Springsteen  
  
She had been hurt and dirty and tired and more frightened than ever before. She had been scared of the violent men who were chasing her, scared of the cruel, heartless woman who had hired them, scared most of all by the strange ghostly powers that were suddenly a part of her.  
  
Since then she had faced everything from demons to hateful bigots to the Brood with courage, intelligence, and aplomb. She had proven herself time and time again; she had experienced more in the last year and a half than most people could even imagine in a lifetime; and she had handled it with a maturity seldom seen in children her age, all without losing her innocence, her faith in humanity, and her ability to be amazed.  
  
None of this meant she was no longer frightened by anything, because she was, often. It meant that she would never again endure that feeling of inexperienced, solitary terror. She had since known fear that was more intense, more pure, more intimate; but nothing quite like the emotions that had flooded through her as she sat huddled alone on the cold floor of the dark warehouse, trying desperately to keep from being found. And then she was, and miraculously, everything was okay.  
  
'Tell me, what's a nice kid like you doing in a place like this?'  
  
To Kitty Pryde, no words had ever sounded sweeter. She had not been discovered by the horrible people who wanted to use her and keep her against her will; she had been saved by a kind woman who seemed utterly normal, who was clean and soft, who held and comforted her, and who hadn't ever told anyone that she had sobbed with relief and pent-up fear as though she were a small child.  
  
Even though she had soon discovered that Jean wasn't so normal after all; and even though she had found her awesome displays of power to be frightening in an abstract way; she had been intrigued by the older woman and stunned to discover that she was dead when she arrived at Xavier's less than two weeks later.  
  
Kitty had gradually become an equal with the others in every respect but one. She had not known Jean Grey. She felt uncomfortable when they remembered her with sadness; she felt left out when they remembered her with laughter. She wished that she had known the woman that had brought them such happiness; but she was also glad she did not share their pain. Now she had a chance to get to know her, and she wasn't quite sure how she felt about the prospect. While dead, Jean had developed an air of tragic mystique; she had been a phantom that Kitty could never hope to understand. Alive, the redhead was somehow even more enigmatic.  
  
Maybe it was because Kitty was having trouble reconciling the fact that she had apparently risen from the dead. Many wild and amazing things could happen in the universe; but that wasn't one of them. True death was final. You could be believed dead and come back. You could come back from the brink of death. You could even be technically dead for a short period of time and then be resuscitated, no matter how strange the means; but you did not die on the moon and then show up on earth, vibrant and undoubtably alive, over a year later. It was wrong. It shouldn't be. It was...was...  
  
Ashamed, Kitty caught herself before she thought it. The word she had been reaching for was different.  
  
Yes, rising from the dead was different; but maybe it was different in the way that becoming intangible was different. Or the way controlling the weather or opening interdimensional portals was different. And it was even closer to being different in the way that having the physical appearance of a demon was. For all her tolerance, Kitty once again found herself passing judgement for something other than the person within. She remembered with regret and contrition how she had treated Kurt when she had first joined the team. She didn't want to make that mistake again.  
  
A good way of preventing it's occurance would be to understand exactly how Phoenix had managed to literally rise from the ashes, something Moira was preparing to tell them. Ever inquisitive, Kitty turned her full attention to the doctor.  
  
[pic]  
  
"--not saying that this is exactly the way events transpired," Moira was saying. "We will never know all the details unless Jean recovers her full memory; but this is the most logical and likely hypothesis, reached by combining what she does remember with the results of the tests we've run."  
  
"As we all know," she continued, "Jean's death on the moon was not her first. She had died almost two years previously, aboard the Starcore shuttle; but in that case her rebirth was nearly instantaneous." Across the room Jean stiffened slightly, and Scott tightened his grasp on her hand. Logan glanced at them. He had expected Jean to become upset; but the look in her eyes caught him off guard. She was suddenly distant, detached. She was still listening to what Moira was saying, but she would not be feeling any of it. And that worried him.  
  
"Her memories of what occured on the shuttle are sketchy at best; but we surmise that at the moment of death she was able to break free of the remaining psi barriers Charles had placed around her mind as a child and reach her full potential, briefly becoming an entity of pure thought. That potential was then further boosted by the abnormal solar flares bombarding the shuttle, enabling her to recreate her body and place her entire consciousness, her mind and soul, into it," Moira explained. "However, this new body was energy based, and that presented problems. Besides suddenly having the ability to do almost anything she wished with her powers; most of the time she did not need to eat or breath or sleep. She was self- sufficient; they weren't basic, human necessities any longer. The result of this, along with other factors, was that a part of her began to lose touch with her humanity; and she gradually developed a schism in her psyche. A split personality, if you will. This schism became most severe with her transformation into Dark Phoenix. Jean was her "good" side, and Phoenix the "bad". Eventually, she was driven to take her own life, to prevent hurting anyone else."  
  
Kurt thought of Scott as he lay next to a scorched and smoking patch of moonscape, a broken man.  
  
Running a hand through her short, auburn hair, Moira sighed. "As before, her consciousness did not dissipate with the death of her physical being; but instead remained intact. At least, this is what we assume. When Jean appeared on Muir ten days ago, her last memory was of her suicide on the moon. She has vague impressions and feelings about what happened after; but nothing concrete. She also believed she had been gone for several weeks or months at the most; and began exhibiting behavior inconsistant with the tests I had performed immediately after her arrival. Upon running more, I made some very interesting discoveries; the most fascinating being that this current body was originally energy based, like the last one. However, the DNA was then almost completely transmuted into that of an ordinary human, creating a sort of hybrid, for lack of a better term. I've never seen anything like it."  
  
"Care to clarify, doc?" Logan questioned.  
  
"It's difficult to explain. Jean's telekinesis is so refined and powerful that she is able to use it on a molecular level. She's also able to manipulate her body with scarcely a second thought. We believe that she first recreated her energy based body; and then realizing the danger inherent in that, she transformed it, cell by cell, into that of an ordinary human. However, each individual cell is imbued with cosmic level energy."  
  
"What is the difference then, between before and now?" Ororo asked, looking at Jean who was sitting quietly between Scott and Kurt, her eyes downcast, a hand pressed against one temple as if she had a throbbing headache.  
  
"The main difference is consistency of power supply. Before, her powers were extremely unstable. She would hit a limit when she thought there was a source; at other times she would find herself tapping into greater amounts than she thought possible. What was actually occuring - although she did not know it at the time - was that she had erected her own psionic barriers in the place of Charles', walls designed to keep much of her power at bay, dams that included small apertures through which she could draw the power that she needed. With time, the openings grew larger and larger, until the barriers burst completely, the result being Dark Phoenix. And in order to maintain her power at that level, she found it necessary to feed off of D'Bari. Now, her power is spread evenly throughout her entire body, with only a small reserve in her mind. It appears that as she modified each cell, she permeated them with her power. The upshot of all this is that in order to lose control like that again, she would have to make a concerted effort, or be extremely careless."  
  
Moira paused and Charles stepped forward, clearing his throat. "I do not wish to change the topic; but I feel this must be addressed. While Jean was not technically responsible for her actions as Dark Phoenix, by reason of insanity, she was already held accountable for those crimes before her death and should continue to be, regardless of whether or not it would happen again. Genocide should not be punishable by a slap on the wrist, no matter what the extenuating circumstances."  
  
{Even if you were responsible for most of those extenuating circumstances?}  
  
Charles winced. Like everyone else, Jean's attention was focused on him; but her gaze was cool and neutral, showing no sign that she had intended him to hear her thoughts.  
  
"I think we got different definitions of the phrase, 'a slap on the wrist', Chuck," Logan responded. "She died. She was dead for over a year. I doubt it was a pleasant experience. Besides, it seems the only circumstances you're taking into account are the bad ones, like that bastard Mastermind. What about the good ones? What about when she saved the whole universe? That's got to count for something. We wouldn't be here to pass judgement if she hadn't kept her head and done what she did."  
  
"I agree with Logan; and I'm not just saying that because I love her," Scott added. "And as you said yourself, Charles, she was insane. Are we to judge her the same as we would had she been fully in control of herself and her actions?"  
  
"I don't think that her mental state should absolve her of all responsibility," Kurt said. "Then again, she did take responsibility for her actions by admitting to them and agreeing to be tried under Shi'ar terms."  
  
"Stop. Just stop, please." Jean looked at Moira. "I can't do this."  
  
"That's okay," the older woman responded reassuringly. She turned to the others. "I think it would be best if Jean left now. Does anyone object?"  
  
"Not at all," Ororo responded, speaking for the group.  
  
"Are you all right?" Scott whispered, looking at Jean with concern. "Would you like me to go with you?"  
  
"No. I just need to be alone for a bit." She patted his hand and stood. "I'm fine, really. I just can't breathe in here."  
  
She walked towards the door and then paused, turning to look at each of them in turn. "There is something I'd like to say first. I am not asking for forgiveness for what I have done in the past. I am not asking for understanding, or acceptance. I know I don't deserve any of those things; and if I can't give them to myself, I have no right to ask them of others. The sins I committed were beyond forgiveness, almost beyond comprehension; and I would give anything, do anything, if only I could take them back; but I can't. I can only try to make up for them as best I can; and that is what I'm asking for. A second chance. I know that no amount of good deeds will ever even put a dent in all the pain and suffering and death I have caused; but I would like to at least try. I want to finish school, and have a regular life; but the X-Men have always been about helping people and making a difference, and I want to be a part of that again, if you'll let me. I know that I made mistakes last time. I rejected the help of those of you who offered it until it was too late, and I won't do that again. I want to be a whole person again, I want to live. I've been given another chance at life, a chance I don't really deserve, and I want to make the most of it. That's all. Nothing more."  
  
[pic]  
  
With a shuddering sigh, Jean slid down to the floor, resting her head on her knees, trying to get ahold of herself.  
  
She had almost lost it in there, listening to them talk, hearing the descriptions of what had happened to her while trying to remain calm and collected. She had wanted to scream and cry and give into her anger and hurt and fear over what had happened; but if she had it would have jeopardized any chance she had of getting back on the team and showing that she was stable and in control. She was okay with all this, she assured herself, this sudden panic was just a result of being back in Westchester with everyone and all her worrying. She smiled. Things certainly had changed if now Scott was the one trying to get her to relax. She took a couple deep breaths and stood. She was fine. She had to be.  
  
She looked behind her at the heavy oaken doors of the common room and fought down the temptation to listen in psychically. They'd be out soon enough. She could use the time to get reaquainted with the mansion. Her home.  
  
Moira and Sean had told her about most of the major events that had occured during her absence, including the destruction and rebuilding of the mansion; but Jean nevertheless found the change jarring. As a telepath, psychic emanations and psi signatures were just as important as what she could see, hear, smell, taste, and touch, if not more so. To find the place emptied of most residual energies before the last six months made her feel hollow and empty, sorrowful. So much had been lost.  
  
However, there were a multitude of fresh impressions, most young and easy and untainted, that reminded her very much of the simple days after the initial founding of the team, when they were children. She wondered if the New Mutants had any idea what could happen to you if you lived in this house.  
  
[pic]  
  
"That had to be the most disgusting movie I have ever seen in my life." Roberto DaCosta offered his arm to Amara Aquilla as they stepped out into the alley behind the Salem Center Cineplex and headed for the street.  
  
Sam Guthrie feigned astonishment. "C'mon, Bobby, it's an American classic! How could you not appreciate it?"  
  
"Sam, I've seen American classics. Frank Capra movies are American classics. I don't think Evil Dead II, as hilarious as it is, qualifies as one."  
  
"Not in the same catagory maybe; but you have to admit it was good, 'berto." Dani Moonstar pushed her hands into the pockets of her jeans as they wandered out onto the street and into the breezy afternoon. "Besides, there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than sneaking in to see an old Bruce Campbell flick. Hi, Rahne."  
  
The young Scots girl was waiting for them on a bench outside the theater and fell into step between Sam and Dani.  
  
"I agree with Dani," Amara added, her blonde curls shining in the sun. "It was good. While I did not understand much of the humor, all the blood reminded me of the afternoons I spent with my father in our box at the games."  
  
Rahne gave them a look both smug and disapproving. "You're all just terrible and lucky you didn't get caught. You should have come with me to the library instead of watching such an evil, evil thing."  
  
"It wasn't that bad," Dani laughed, tossing her braids behind her. "What book did you get, Rahney?"  
  
"The Romance of Tristan and Iseult. It's lovely."  
  
"Looks good," Sam replied, putting an arm around his younger teammate. "C'mon, let's get home before the X-Men polish off all that ice cream in the freezer."  
  
[pic]  
  
Once upon a time, not too terribly long ago, Collins, Chamberlain, and Jones had been a thriving law practice, serving hundreds of clients throughout the years in their unassuming but competent Harlem office. Times had changed and Carl Jones, the only surviving partner, was finally achiving his dream of early retirement. It had not been easy. Forty years of scrimping and saving and doing without could wear a man down. The idea of being out of the city, out of the smog and away from the crime and the harsh winters was what had kept him going. By this time next week he would be on the Florida shore, fishing rod in one hand, a beer in the other; his fantasy was almost a reality. But first there were things to be taken care of.  
  
With the help of his secretary, he was sorting through the dozens and dozens of boxes that had accumulated junk over the years. Carl was a packrat. He had saved every single file and scrap of paper that had meant anything to any client or case. He had always had the nagging feeling that if he threw something out he would undoubtably need it. Now that he was beginning an entirely new phase of his life he wouldn't be needing or wanting any of it; but he thought he'd take one last look through the boxes, just to make sure.  
  
After five or six hours of mindless, uneventful paper shuffling, Carl thought he'd take a chance and do something radical. He was about to tell Vanessa just to dump it all in the trash without looking at it when she let out a cry of exclamation and crawled across the mess of papers, an envelope in her hand.  
  
"Look, Mr. Jones, a safe deposit box key."  
  
His interest piqued, he took the envelope from her, and looked at the note inside which read simply, 'David Munroe. First National Bank.' He remembered David fondly, they had been casual aquaintances aside from their professional relationship. By way of mutual friends, he knew that David and his wife had been dead for years; but he also remembered their daughter, whose body had not been found with theirs. Technically, it was still his job to see that she got this key and he wasn't one to let a job go unfinished. On the other hand, Florida was calling, and the girl was most likely dead or untraceable. Still, he had to try.  
  
"Say, Vanessa," he said thoughtfully. "I know you're still interested in going into the P.I. business. How would you like some practice?" 


	6. Five

Risen  
  
Chapter Five  
  
Something threw me in the dirt  
  
Kinda got my feelings hurt  
  
We was burnin' somewhere down the wind  
  
I had to get up and climb that hill again  
  
~Tom Petty  
  
"I still can't quite believe it," Misty Knight exclaimed, spooning sugar into her coffee. "Lord knows, I shouldn't be surprised, considering everything I've seen in my life - including your first resurrection; but I have to admit your phone call certainly gave me a shock."  
  
"Thank you again for coming. I needed someone one to talk to; and even though Hank and Bobby are both in New York, I was hestitant to get in touch with them so soon," Jean replied sincerely, tapping her cigarette against the ashtray and looking across the table at her former roommate. They had always had a unique relationship for which both were grateful: while comfortable enough to talk openly and truthfully about their lives, they weren't close enough to become entangled in each other's problems, and each could usually count on the other for an unbiased opinion or perspective.  
  
"Not a problem," Misty responded. "You're just lucky you were able to get ahold of me. I've been told it's next to impossible."  
  
"I take it that means business is going well?"  
  
"Booming, actually. You wouldn't believe the number of cases Colleen and I get asked to look into these days," the cocoa-skinned woman answered amiably. "But Jean, I didn't drive up here like a maniac, risking life and limb, to talk about my work. What's bothering you?"  
  
"What isn't?" She took a drag on her cigarette, inhaling the sweet, spicy taste and scent of the cloves. "Ever since I arrived in Westchester, I've been on emotional overload. Everything's so raw, so...primal. It's unsettling. I shouldn't be thinking, feeling, like this."  
  
Misty laughed softly. "Red, you've always been emotional and tempermental; and considering what you've been through, I think that whatever you're experiencing inside is perfectly normal." She cocked her head and studied her friend closely. "What is it you're not telling me?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Jean."  
  
"Really, nothing. You're probably right. It's understandable that I'm so upset; and the only reason I didn't panic until now is because everything's so much more familiar here than in Scotland."  
  
"Bull."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"There's something else." Misty's voice was sharp and determined. "I know there is. It's my job to know; and even if it weren't, I know you. You didn't want me come here and quickly alay your fears about your emotional state. You wanted to talk to me about something important; and neither one of us is leaving here until you do. I'll ask you again. What's bothering you?"  
  
Jean grinned. "Now I know why Colleen lets you do most of the interrogating."  
  
"Ha ha. God, this coffee's bad."  
  
"That's why I'm not having any."  
  
"I thought it was because you were getting all the legal drugs you needed from that cancer stick."  
  
"I don't notice the drugs. Can't taste or smell them because of the cloves; and they don't affect my body for long because of my powers. However, because of your caffiene dependency, you are forced to drink Harry's sludge, which serves one purpose and one purpose only."  
  
"To sober you up quickly with it's sheer disgustingness?"  
  
"Is that a word?"  
  
"It might be. It should be. Nice try at changing the subject."  
  
"Hey, you're the one who brought up the coffee." Tossing her head back, Jean ground the butt of her cigarette into the ashtray. "I admit there's something else on my mind that I was hoping I might talk to you about; but now I'm not so sure."  
  
"You know I'd never speak to anyone about what you tell me, Jean. I never have."  
  
Jean smiled faintly. "I know. You were the only one that I was able to talk to back then, when I first became Phoenix, and I'm more thankful for that than you can imagine. Although, in retrospect, it might have been better if you had told someone what I spoke to you about."  
  
"Maybe, maybe not. I do know there's no use worrying about past problems, especially when ones from the present are staring you in the face."  
  
"True enough," Jean sighed. "Misty, I'm scared; and not because of how I'm reacting to all of this." She paused, looking for the right words. "When I first came back, I told Moira and Sean that I didn't remember anything about being dead except for nothingness. And I was telling the truth - that was all I remembered."  
  
"And now it's not?"  
  
"I still remember nothing. Seemingly neverending nothing. The problem is, I'm starting to remember what was before that. It isn't much, not even enough to really be called a memory. Nothing I remember seeing, or hearing, or experiencing. Just a feeling."  
  
"Does this feeling have a name?"  
  
"Terror."  
  
"That's certainly to the point," Misty said quietly, wondering if it were too early in the day to have a brandy. She'd forgotten how unsettling Jean and her life could be.  
  
"There are other emotions mixed up with it; but they're intricate and I'm not sure what to make of them yet. All I know is that the underlying feeling is that of abject, paralysing terror. Misty, I don't know what happened to me during that time - I'm not sure I even want to any more - but I really appreciate you being here for me. I feel more in control, talking about it," she explained, lighting another cigarette. "It seems more real."  
  
"You doubted that it was?"  
  
"Death and resurrection affect your perception of reality."  
  
"I suppose they would. Now, Jean, about this feeling of 'abject terror' --" She stopped as the other woman held up her hand, and the tell-tale sign of a telepathic conversation - a faintly glazed, faraway look - came over her eyes.  
  
"Sorry, Misty, it looks like we'll have to finish this another time. The Professor's calling me back to the mansion." Her slight smile faded into an expression of utmost seriousness. "They've decided what to do with me."  
  
[pic]  
  
Smoothing the tight skirt of her pale, cream colored, highly expensive suit, Emma Frost slid gracefully into the back of the waiting limo and accepted a glass of dry white wine from her companion as they pulled away from the Massachusetts Academy.  
  
"Did your meeting with Wyngarde go as planned?" he inquired, his voice husky and smooth, as masked in darkness as his face.  
  
"Better than I expected," she replied with a wry smile. "He is even more of a fool now than he was before. He's so eager for vengeance, domination, that he'd do anything I requested without a second thought, provided he believes there's something in it for him. I wish you could have been there to see it, Sebastian. He played right into my hands. It was delicious."  
  
"I have no doubt of that, my dear."  
  
A decidingly self-satisfied look entered Emma's eyes, warming the blue ice ever so slightly.  
  
[pic]  
  
Because of her slight build, fine, angular features, and the almost childlike quality of her voice and mannerisms, Jean Grey was often underestimated by those who did not always see the strength, the iron will, that lay just beneath the delicate exterior. And although it made her angry not to be taken seriously, she had learned early on how to turn such a liability into an asset.  
  
Now, as she entered the Professor's study and closed the door behind her, unaware of his decision but preparing herself for the worst; she launched a pre-emptive strike, clasping her hands in her lap, crossing her ankles, biting her lower lip and casting her eyes down, looking for all the world like a lost little girl in desperate need of a hug. Charles would have to have a heart of stone to turn her over to Lilandra, or do anything else along those lines. Her demeanor would not seem false to him either, for she was not acting. She was simply allowing what was at the core of her to shine through her hard mantle of courage, and the deceptively fragile shell.  
  
Charles looked at her and underwent his own transformation - the foreboding sterness of his face becoming milder, his voice taking on the tone one would use with a despondent child. "Don't look so forlorn, Jean. I'm not going to 'throw you to the wolves to be rendered limb from limb in a bloody spectacle' as Moira put it," he said, taking a seat beside her on the small couch.  
  
She looked at him warily. "Really?"  
  
"You thought I would?" There was hurt in his voice, and a part of her regretted doubting him; but she had too much reason to do so.  
  
"Yes," she said, "I thought you would."  
  
Their eyes met, and for a moment she thought she would be able to tell him, to confront him with all the rage and hurt and betrayal she harbored toward him; but then he stood and paced toward the window, and the opportunity was lost.  
  
"Jean, after discussing the situation in great length and detail, the X- Men, Moira, and I have reached a decision that we feel is fair to all involved," he began. "First, no further punitive action will be taken against you for the crimes you committed as Dark Phoenix. Having to live with what you've done, along with dying for those acts, even temporarily, is punishment enough. We trust that you will also continue to make reparation, in whatever way you deem necessary. Is that satisfactory?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Secondly, on the subject of your returning to the X-Men, I'm afraid that at this point in time, it is entirely out of the question. It would not be safe. You're out of practice. There are trust issues to be dealt with. You have to learn how to work as part of a team again; and we have to make sure your powers are stable, for your wellbeing as much as everyone else's."  
  
"So I'm a student again? On par with the New Mutants?"  
  
"Essentially, although you will obviously have more freedom than they, and may use any facilities you wish. You may also live here in the mansion for as long as you like. You may have a say in matters concerning the X-Men, but you may not go into battle with them. Periodically, Storm, Cyclops, and I will review your progress, and eventually, when you are ready, you will be offered full membership to the team. Are those terms also acceptable?"  
  
"I suppose. It wouldn't do any good to argue that I'm ready now, would it?"  
  
He shook his head. "Not in the least. I'm sorry."  
  
She nodded resignedly. "It seems fair enough. Anything else?"  
  
"Yes." He paused, meeting her eyes again. "During your probation, as it were, you must allow me to perform regular, in-depth, psi scans."  
  
"NO!" She stood, almost shaking with anger. "No. That's not fair, Charles, not fair at all. I'm not going to let you poke around in my head whenever you wish."  
  
"Jean, it is necessary."  
  
"No, it is not. I'm not a child any more, Professor. You can't do things like that without my permission, and pretend it's so very important. Why should I believe you anyway? You insisted that cutting off access to my telepathy was the best thing for all concerned, and look where that got us."  
  
"I made an error in judgement, one that I will regret for the rest of my life. That doesn't mean I'm making a mistake now."  
  
"What would be the point, Charles? What will you be looking for? Will I have to watch what I think? Will ideas that you find in there and don't agree with be detrimental to my progress in getting back on the team?"  
  
"No, of course not. All I wish to do is moniter the effect of your powers on your psyche. I wish you would stop overreacting, Jean."  
  
She sat down again, her voice calm. "I am not overreacting, Charles. You know that you would have the exact same reaction if our positions were reversed. You have no right to go into my head without my permission, and I don't intend to give it to you. Cerebro can run the same type of scans, with far more accurate results; and that is the only way I'll be 'monitered'. If you don't like it, too bad. I'm tired of being your unwitting experiment," she finished.  
  
"Experiment? Jean, I have never --"  
  
"Yes, Charles, you have. Who did you use to calibrate Cerebro in the first place? Me. Who did you use to discover what would happen if mutant powers were cut off and not allowed to flourish? Me. Who did you then refuse to help, even a little bit, trying to see how long it would take for insanity to set it? Me. Who --"  
  
"Stop it!" he said angrily. "You are twisting the past, and I am not going to listen to it."  
  
"Perhaps," she replied quietly. "Perhaps not. I'm only telling you what it felt like to me."  
  
"Did it really seem like that?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"That was never my intention," he sighed. They sat in silence for several minutes before he spoke again. "If it's that upsetting to you, I suppose that I could have Cerebro perform the tests, but they would have to be done more frequently."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
He caught her hand in his as she stood to leave, forcing her to look at him.  
  
"I know I made mistakes, terrible mistakes, where you were concerned, Jean. Earlier, you said that all you wanted was a second chance. Don't I deserve one as well?" 


	7. Six

Risen  
  
Chapter Six  
  
Â   
  
"You do deserve a second chance, Charles. I just don't know if I'm ready to give it to you." Jean pulled her arm from his grasp as he stood. "I know it makes me a hypocrite," she continued, turning away from him, "and I wish I could just get over it and move on and do what I know you think is 'right' and 'best' and 'healthy'; but I can't. Not yet anyway."  
  
"Don't leave."  
  
She paused and looked back. "Why not? What else is there to say right now?"  
  
"I want to help you, Jean. I want to do what I couldn't do before. All you have to do is stop being so hostile and let me. Is that really so much to ask?"  
  
"What would that accomplish?" she demanded bitterly. "I wasn't hostile before, when I needed you, Charles. When I was desperate for your help and you just left."  
  
"If I remember correctly, it was you who left first," he pointed out. "You ran off to Greece without so much as a word of explanation to me."  
  
She was silent for a moment, unable to dispute what he had said. "I left for the same reason you did - there were too many painful memories. And...I thought that you didn't want to have anything to do with me, that I just made it worse for you. I was afraid to ask you for help, afraid of what you'd think, or do. So I convinced myself I could handle it alone."  
  
"And that is my fault?"  
  
"Yes, damnit!" She raised her voice, frustrated. "You don't have any idea how hard it is to talk to you, do you? Even when the world's not crashing down around you it's unbelievably difficult; and it was impossible for me back then. You've known me since I was a child, Professor, you should have known what the deaths of my teammates, my friends, my lover, my family, would have done to me. You should have known that I don't ask for help easily. You should have sensed that I needed you to reach out to me. That I was so scared and so alone that I couldn't even begin to talk to you about what was troubling me."  
  
"Be rational, Jean. You could have said something. Given me a hint that things were that serious." He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, wondering when things had become so complicated. Or had they always been this way, and he just hadn't noticed until it was impossible not to?  
  
"I couldn't," she breathed, her voice starting to break, though whether from sorrow or anger he couldn't tell. "I just couldn't. I couldn't. And you should have known." She turned and ran from the room, pushing past Moira who was just entering.  
  
"Well," the doctor said cheerfully, "that went well."  
  
Wearily, Charles shook his head in disagreement. "Well? It was this close to a disaster."  
  
"No, no, not at all. You're both still alive and in one piece, aren't you?" She put her arm around his waist as they left the room. "Chin up, Charley. Be honest with yourself and the lass, and it'll all come out right in the end."  
  
[pic]  
  
She slammed the door violently and flung herself on the bed in her old room; her fury intensifying as she picked up the psychic residue surrounding her, the intrusive, foreign emanations that had been left behind by the last occupant. It was everywhere, clinging to the quilt, the walls, hanging in the air; oppressing her with it's inherent sorrow and loneliness and struggle.  
  
She punched the pillow next to her face in frustration. He couldn't help her, but he could help a terrorist, a member of the Brotherhood? What the hell was wrong with him? What was wrong with her?  
  
The door swung open and Scott entered, crossed the room purposefully and flipped her over onto her back, looking down at the disheveled hair and furious eyes with amusement. She threw the pillow at him and he batted it away, catching her wrists lightly in his hands. "Aren't you a bit old for temper tantrums?" he questioned, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"I'm not throwing a tantrum," she insisted as he let go and she slid off the bed, stalking over to the window, the sunlight glinting off her hair, imbuing it's fire with streaks of gold. "He just makes me so mad! Why can't he assauge his conscience without torturing me?"  
  
"Exaggerate much?" he asked good naturedly, realizing again how much he had missed every little thing about her, even scenes like this. "I hardly think he's torturing you, Jean."  
  
"It certainly feels like it sometimes." She placed her hands on her hips, daring him to contradict her. "I don't need or want his help now, Scott. Doesn't he understand it's too late? Why is he always so stubborn?"  
  
"I hate to use cliches; but you calling Charles stubborn is like the pot calling the kettle black. You're both going to have to be reasonable if you're going to work this out."  
  
"I'm angry. I don't want to be reasonable," she answered crossly, her bad mood starting to subside into petulance. "I don't want to talk about Charles any more either."  
  
"All right, we won't. There's no need to rush things. As long as you realize that you will eventually have to talk about him and to him," he said as he joined her by the window.  
  
"I know. It's just..." She looked up at him and was suddenly very aware of the proximity of his body to her own, of the heat that coursed between them, strong, as if she had never been gone.  
  
He bent his head and brushed his lips to hers, a soft and tender barely- there-kiss, the brief contact both sweet and electrifying, leaving her lightheaded and exhilerated, as if she had just been kissed for the very first time. "I'm sorry," he said quietly and genuinely apologetic. "I shouldn't have done that. We haven't talked --"  
  
"Scott?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"We'll talk later. Kiss me again."  
  
The feel of his mouth against hers was exquisite, achingly familiar and brand new all at once, sending a tingly warmth through her limbs and down her spine, a heavenly sensation that heightened her awareness of herself as well as of him; blending them in a way that no psychic ability ever could. And for just a moment, the first since her ressurection, she had no doubts, no worries.  
  
No regrets.  
  
[pic]  
  
Logan returned to the now nearly empty common room, a cup of coffee in one hand, and seated himself comfortably on the big, dark blue sofa; his calm, almost laidback demeanor successfully hiding the thoughts that were pounding through his brain. "What's that you're readin'?"  
  
Kitty looked up from where she was sprawled on the floor, paperback in hand. "Rappachini's Daughter."  
  
"Do you like it?"  
  
She scratched one denim clad leg with her sneaker. "It's interesting; but I'm not sure of all the symbolism yet. Maybe the Professor will postpone the test, since so much has happened..." she trailed off hopefully.  
  
"I doubt it," he snorted, taking a gulp of his strong drink. "Chuck's not goin' to cut you a break for this one. You're not even involved."  
  
"Of course I am. All the hours I could have been studying this afternoon, I spent in here, talking about her."  
  
He looked down at the curly head with sudden affection. "You wouldn't have been studyin'. You would have been watchin' that X-Files thing you've been talkin' about."  
  
"That was on today?!" she choked in something akin to horror. "I missed the marathon!" She tossed the book down and slumped, defeated, on the rug.  
  
"Don't worry, darlin'. I taped it for you."  
  
"You did? Oh, Logan, I love you!" she exclaimed, eyes shining happily.  
  
He chuckled. "All the times I've saved your skin, and this is what you're thankful for."  
  
"I thought being thankful for stuff like that went without saying." She jumped to her feet as the phone began to ring. "It might be Doug," she explained. "Hello, Xavier's School For Gifted Youngsters."  
  
"Hi, Kitty, it's Stevie. Is Kurt around?"  
  
"Just a sec." She put her hand over the mouth piece. "KUUUUURT, TELEPHONE!"  
  
"Yell a bit louder, darlin'," Logan grimaced. "I don't think they heard you in Yonkers."  
  
"Sorry." She put the reciever down and flopped back onto the floor as Kurt picked up an extension. Logan nudged her with his foot.  
  
"So, what's the deal with you and the Ramsey kid?"  
  
She squinted up at him. "Nothing. We're just friends. Why?"  
  
"I'm just takin' an interest. He seems nice enough. Smart, not too polite. Enthusiastic. An honest face an' smell. I can understand what you see in him."  
  
She laughed. "You make it sound like I like him."  
  
"Don't you?"  
  
"Yes; but not that way. I told you, we're just friends. Besides, I love Peter. Doug knows that."  
  
"Lovin' one person doesn't stop you from lovin' another," he told her. "All it does is cause complications and heartache. No one wins in a situation like that, an' everyone gets hurt."  
  
She propped herself up on one elbow, her interest piqued. "So it's happened to you?"  
  
"Your deduction skills get more astoundin' every day. Yeah, it happened to me. A long time ago, before I fell for Mariko. That's all you ever need to know."  
  
"Geez, it was just a question. You don't have to bite my head off."  
  
He paused before answering, his tone softened. "Sorry, darlin', didn't mean to snap at you. Jeannie's return has got me on edge."  
  
"You are not the only one, my friend," Ororo announced from the doorway, clad in a long pale blue dress that matched her eyes. "Her presence will take time to become accustomed to; but I am sure that eventually things will be as they once were."  
  
Logan raised an eyebrow, exhaling smoke. "You're very optimistic, 'Ro."  
  
She shrugged. "My friend is alive; and I am happy."  
  
"I'm happy too, we all are; but things ain't that simple."  
  
"Why can't they be, Logan? Why must we anticipate problems where there are none?"  
  
He stared at her. "Because that's what we do, all the time. Especially you, bein' team leader."  
  
"This situation has nothing to do with my leadership abilities," she bristled. "It is purely personal. If Jean were going to be rejoining the team immediately, my feelings would naturally be quite different."  
  
"Naturally."  
  
Kitty scrambled to her feet and stood between them. "Come on, you two, don't fight."  
  
"We're not fighting, kitten. We're having a difference of opinion." She looked past the girl to the man. "Logan, I did not come to argue with you - only to ask if you would be staying for dinner tonight."  
  
"Sure, I'll stay." He finished his coffee and stood. "I want a chance to see Jean, talk to her again, before I leave."  
  
[pic]  
  
"I hate to interrupt, kids, but I've got to jet."  
  
Jean reluctantly broke the kiss and turned from Scott to Misty, who had poked her head inside the door. "Do you?" she asked, her face conveying her disappointment. "Can't you stay the night?"  
  
"Sorry, Red, I would if I could. I managed to get out of this afternoon's commitments but I've got plans for tonight that can't be broken. Don't hesitate to call me though," she continued. "Any time, for any reason at all. Stay in touch."  
  
"I will, promise. I hope your coming up here doesn't cause you any trouble."  
  
"It shouldn't. If Colleen doesn't accept a close friend's return from the dead as a legitimate excuse for disappearing for hours on end, I'm never going to be able to please her. Take care, Jean," she said as the two women embraced. "I'll see myself out."  
  
After she had gone, Jean took a deep breath. There was no use prolonging the inevitable. "Scott," she asked, "after my death, did you and Colleen see much of each other?"  
  
He shook his head. "No. Actually, apart from one or two chance meetings, I haven't seen Colleen in the last two years."  
  
She hesitated briefly before continuing with her questions. "Is there a woman in your life right now?"  
  
A pause. Please let him say no, she prayed, please, please, please, I love him so --  
  
"To be completely honest, there is. Her name's Aleytys Forrester - Lee. A couple months ago we decided to start seeing other people because once I moved to Alaska we were rarely able to see each other; but we're still close. I still have feelings for her. She's a wonderful woman."  
  
Her face fell slightly. "Are you in love with her?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Were you?"  
  
"No. At least I never was in the way that I was --"  
  
"With me?"  
  
He nodded silently.  
  
"That kiss didn't feel like your feelings for me were in the past."  
  
He took her hands in his, hating the pain he saw in her eyes and the defiant tilt of her chin. "Jean, you have to understand something. I know that you don't feel like you've been gone for very long; but you have. Things are different. I'm different. I've grown, Jean, grown as a person, as a man, because of you, and because of your death.  
  
"God knows, I still love you. I always have and I always will, no matter what you do or I do or what happens between us or to us or around us. For better or for worse, whether we want to be or not, irregardless of how perfectly we fit together or how often we fight -- we are bound together forever. I can't stop loving you; and you'll never be able to stop loving me, no matter how hard we try."  
  
"You want to stop trying?" She couldn't decide whether to slap him or kiss him.  
  
"No; but I don't think we should rush into things. I can see us clearly now, in a way I never could before. I understand that I can't just take you in my arms and forget everything that's happened, even though that's all I want. I can see that if we become involved, especially now, it could bring more pain than happiness. I can't knowingly plunge headlong into that depth of anguish all over again."  
  
"It doesn't sound like you've changed very much at all," she told him in a low voice as she looked away. "You don't know what's going to happen in the future. Why do you automatically assume we'd crash and burn? You're scared; and so you do what you always do when you're scared. You rationalize why you can't take a chance. Why you can't live."  
  
"That isn't true. I'm not scared to live any more - thanks, in large part, to you. I am still afraid of being hurt; and I don't think that's an unreasonable fear," he explained with conviction. "Jean, all I'm saying is that I think we should take it slow, one step at a time. We can't pick up right where we left off, with marriage proposals and psychic rapports. We have to start over, build from scratch. See if this is what we both really want and need at this point in our lives. I think it would be unfair to the both of us to assume we should be together now, simply because we were before."  
  
After a minute's silence she met his eyes again. "I agree."  
  
"You do?"  
  
"Yes. I may not like it; but I suppose you're right. It's a very logical argument, although I wonder how long you'll stick with it." She smiled suddenly, the change in her expression lighting up the whole room and he briefly but very seriously considered throwing her back on the bed and ignoring everything he had just said.  
  
"So," she continued, "you want to start over? From the beginning?"  
  
"I think it would be for the best."  
  
"In that case, would you like to take me dancing Friday night?"  
  
"You're asking me on a date?"  
  
"That's generally how one begins a relationship."  
  
He returned her smile. "All right then. Dancing it is."  
  
[pic]  
  
It was past nine when they finished eating what had been a relaxed meal with plenty of laughter, wine, and a careful avoidance of serious topics. As she helped Kitty carry plates into the kitchen, Jean felt mellow and at ease, with only one thought at the front of her mind - it was good to be home.  
  
"So, Jean, what did you think of the next generation of X-Men?" Kurt asked as he came into the room behind them and began helping Kitty load the dishwasher. Jean hopped up on the counter and emptied her wine glass as she considered her answer, thinking about the children that she had just met.  
  
There was Dani Moonstar, a tall and self-possessed Native American girl of about sixteen, who co-led the junior team with Sam Guthrie, a polite and towheaded boy who had not quite gotten the hang of his gangly limbs. She had been favorably impressed with both of them. Rahne Sinclair, a petite snubnosed redhead, had taken an immediate and obvious dislike to her but had said nothing(although she had caused a commotion during the meal by distraughtly excusing herself upon Sean's announcement of his intentions to marry her guardian, being torn between her desire to see Moira happy and near hysterical that the object of her affections was a Catholic). Next was Roberto DaCosta, a sauve, sophisticated, and flirtatious boy who was no doubt as ambitious as he was charming, a good thing as far as Jean was concerned. She had also taken an instant liking to the hotblooded Amara Aquilla, who exuded royalty and narcissism from every pore. Illyana Rasputin came last, a troubled young girl who bore no resemblence whatsoever to her older brother, either in body or mind. Jean wasn't sure what to make of her yet.  
  
"I can't make a judgement as to how they'll do as superheroes; but as people they seem to be a pretty good bunch."  
  
Kitty made a face. "Illyana's terrific. The rest of them are a bunch of bratty babies."  
  
Kurt laughed. "Kitty has issues with them," he explained.  
  
Jean smiled back. Plain, old-fashioned jealousy no doubt. The baby of the team wasn't the baby any more. She remembered feeling much the same way when Lorna had appeared on the scene - no matter how often she had complained about being the only girl or how much she had resented being treated differently than the other members, there was a part of her that cherished that separation. She was distinct, special, doted upon, and then suddenly there was someone else to share that attention with. She hadn't liked it one bit, and she didn't blame Kitty at all for her reaction. There was probably some degree of hostility on the part of the New Mutants as well; to them, Kitty was an outsider, someone their age that they couldn't relate to, someone they couldn't confide in or trust because of her relationship with the adults. A sad situation for all involved, but understandable.  
  
Kitty transferred her look to Kurt. "I do not have issues with those jerks."  
  
"Of course you don't."  
  
"I don't. What did Stevie want?"  
  
"Oh, Stevie." He paused in his cleaning efforts. "She wanted to know if she could give my name and number to a friend of hers that works at the Book Nook. I had a run in with the woman this afternoon, and she wants to make up for her clumsiness by buying me a drink. Stevie says she just went through a messy divorce and isn't looking for a relationship, only a friend; but even so, there's Amanda --" he shrugged.  
  
Jean spoke up from her perch on the counter. "Scott and I are going out next weekend....a 'first date' kind of thing. You and this woman are welcome to double with us if you want."  
  
"I wouldn't want to intrude."  
  
"Nonsense. It would actually be helpful. We're trying to take things slow and I have a feeling they'll go slower if other people are around."  
  
"In that case I'll think about it," he replied as Logan joined them.  
  
"Can I borrow Jeannie for a minute?"  
  
"Go ahead, she's not helping anyway," Kitty responded good naturedly.  
  
"Let's go outside," he suggested, handing Jean her coat and opening the back door where a thin boy with tousled blond hair was waiting, his hand in mid knock. "Evenin', Ramsey. Kitty's inside."  
  
"Good evening, Mr. Logan." He nodded a welcome to Jean and ducked past them, exuberantly announcing his news to his friend. "Kitty! Guess what! I got a letter of acceptance to the Massachussett's Academy from Ms. Frost herself!"  
  
[pic]  
  
"Ms. Frost?" Jean hissed in disbelief as Logan dragged her out into the chilly night air and closed the door behind them. "Emma Frost?!"  
  
"One and the same." He pulled a cigar from his inside jacket pocket and cupped his hand against the wind as he lit it.  
  
"But she's dead."  
  
"Hate to break it to you, darlin', but you're dead too. Seems Frost faked her death back when the two of you went head to head."  
  
"Oh." She remembered that fight vividly, how good it had felt to slowly tear the woman to pieces, how unbothered she had been when she thought her adversary had committed suicide as an escape. She shivered. "Is...is Jason...?"  
  
"As far as we know, he's still out of commission in a psych ward somewhere. You did quite a number on him."  
  
"I know."  
  
"Why the long face?," he asked, slowly and carefully blowing a ring of smoke out into the air. "He deserved it. Besides, a lady as lovely as you shouldn't ever frown."  
  
Her spirits lifted as his words brought her back to their first walk in this garden, a literal lifetime ago. She shoved her hands into her pockets as they walked down the hill towards the lake, veering slightly into the woods which were black and silent. "What did you want to talk about?"  
  
"You."  
  
"What about me?"  
  
"I just want to make sure you're okay and that you stay that way. I'm goin' to be keepin' an eye on you."  
  
"I don't need you to do that," she replied as she quickened her pace. He had to jog slightly to keep up with her longer strides. The grass was slick with dew, causing him to stumble slightly, and he wondered how she was possibly maintaining her balance in heels.  
  
"I think you do; and there's nothin' you can do to stop me," he countered.  
  
She came to an abrupt halt about five feet from the edge of the woods and faced him, her eyes, more silver than green in the moonlight, narrowed. "I wouldn't be so sure."  
  
The cloak of shadows she wore drove home her words, and for a brief moment he wondered if he shouldn't just leave her alone in this regard. "Is that a threat, darlin'?"  
  
"No, it's a warning. Don't mess with me, Wolverine."  
  
"Or what? You'll go Dark Phoenix on me?"  
  
"Shut up. You heard Moira. That's not going to happen again."  
  
"I believe you believe that. Maybe not deep down - because you'll always believe, in your soul, that it will happen again - but on the surface you do. I even believe that you don't want it to happen again. I don't believe that it won't. I know you, Jeannie, better than anyone, includin' yourself at times. We're two of a kind, remember? Both of us got the beast within, both of us like lettin' it out. When I let go of sanity and reason, sometimes people die. When you do, people always die. Lots of people. I don't want to see that happen again."  
  
"And you think I wouldn't do everything I could to prevent that?"  
  
"Up to a point, I think you would. But it's not in you to watch every little thing you do or say. You're not the type who thinks about the ramifications of her actions beforehand, or considers every possibility. Isn't that one of the reasons why you killed yourself? You knew you couldn't deal with that kind of pressure? You didn't want to have to deal with it?"  
  
"Yes," she whispered.  
  
"I don't want to control what you do, darlin'. I wouldn't ever want you to tame what you've got inside, it's what makes you special. I just don't want it to destroy you again. I want you to be able to be yourself without havin' to worry every second, without havin' to keep yourself in check every moment. That's no way for you to live. You wouldn't be able to do it."  
  
"So you're going to help me keep an eye on myself?"  
  
"Exactly. And I'm goin' to teach you that you can use and enjoy your power without havin' it rule you."  
  
She laughed. "You? The little berserker is going to teach me the finer points of self-control?"  
  
Her met her eyes again, which were no longer threatening but sad and humorless. "Darlin', the man in me has been winnin' the fight for a long time now. Let me show you how."  
  
[pic]  
  
He undressed in the dark, careful not to make a sound. She knew he was there anyway.  
  
"Logan? You are very late. I was worried."  
  
"I'm sorry, Mariko," he said as he slid into bed beside her and kissed her hair which was silken and smelled of wildflowers. "There was a lot to take care of."  
  
"X-Men business?"  
  
"Yes. X-Men business. An old friend returned. We had to decide what to do about it." He closed his eyes and took her in his arms.  
  
"You made a right decision." It was a statement, not a question - there was no doubt in her mind as to his goodness. Such belief made him feel both elated and guilty.  
  
"Go to sleep now, darlin'. You need your rest." She snuggled against him like a child, content and trusting, and he was panged by sudden remorse, even though he had done nothing wrong.  
  
Yet. 


	8. Seven

Risen  
  
Chapter Seven  
  
The road is long, the memory slides  
  
To the whole of my undoing  
  
Put aside, I put away  
  
I push it back to get through  
  
Each day  
  
~Sarah McLachlan  
  
The grief and terror and lust for the power was so deep and so dark and so all consuming that she thought she would drown in it; but then there was pain, hot and blinding pain that obscured everything but the sickening crunch of bone as Peter's fist shattered her jaw and forced her to her knees, her mind fixing the damage to her body even as she raised her head and suddenly she knew, she knew what she had to do, how it had to end; and she started running away, away from them all, away from herself; but Scott followed her, begged her; and she couldn't do what he asked, she didn't have the strength, she had to make it stop; and then her desperation exploded into fire and light and agony and then....  
  
It was waiting, watching, there in the darkness. It wanted her, it was expectant.  
  
Hungry.  
  
The small whimper of a frightened child escaped Jean's mouth, the unexpected sound in the silence snapping her out of the past. She looked down in confusion at the trickle of blood that oozed from between her fingers, only slowly realizing that she must have cut her palm with her nails, she was clenching her fist so tightly.  
  
Her other hand was open, spread flat on the smooth, cold granite of the grave she was kneeling before.  
  
Her grave.  
  
Alone in the cold, dismal cemetary that flanked St. Stephen's, she traced the name and dates with her fingers, letting it truly sink in for the first time, feeling it to the core of her being.  
  
She was dead.  
  
No, maybe not dead now, alive now; but she had died. Jean Elisabeth Grey, September 24, 19-- ~ September 1, 19--. It was literally carved in stone, a horrible and basic reminder of what had happened. She felt dizzy and closed her eyes, praying it would all go away. Maybe when she opened them she would be dead again, like she was supposed to be. Or maybe she was imagining it all, maybe she was crazy and always had been and this was just a delusion, her life and death and life and death and life had been nothing more than the demented fantasies of a broken mind --  
  
A car door slammed in the distance and she hurried to pick herself up off of the damp earth, hiding her trembling hands in the pockets of her coat and heading quickly for the church parking lot, head bent into the wind.  
  
Ororo was standing by the entrance to the cemetary, concern marring her elegant features. "I know you said you wanted to do this alone; but you were gone for so long that I became worried," she explained.  
  
"I'm sorry," Jean said, avoiding the other woman's eyes as they got into the car. "I must have lost track of time."  
  
"You're pale."  
  
"I'm always pale."  
  
"You're shaking."  
  
"I'm cold," she said, flicking the heater on to give her words credence. "It's wet out there. Listen, Ororo," she continued quietly, "I admit that I'm not okay; but that doesn't mean I need to be grilled about it. I thought you of all people would respect my privacy."  
  
"I do." She started the car and turned on the headlights as the misty drizzle turned into a full fledged shower, fat raindrops splattering against the windshield. "The last thing I wish is to make this more difficult for you," she finished, her words sincere but the underlying tone uneasy.  
  
"Then, please, don't start in on me. I don't think I could bear it," Jean replied, staring out her window at the steadily darkening sky, Ororo's turbulent thoughts guaranteeing there would be thunder before the hour was through. The brewing storm made her think of the confrontation with Logan the night before, of the clash of wills and stubborn, angry words. He was just as pigheaded and obstinate now as he had been then. He made her crazy.  
  
And she still wanted him just as badly.  
  
[pic]  
  
"--controversial trial of the Reverend William Stryker, which is scheduled to commence tomorrow morning, has already drawn a large number of protesters who claim that the respected evangelical minister and his followers, known as the "Purifiers", are being unfairly treated by the press and the justice system. Allegations of religious persecution and entrapment are frequent; as is the contention that Stryker and his supporters did not murder anyone any more than a veterinarian "murders" a diseased, dangerous, and unwanted animal. Also here outside the courthouse is a small gathering of mutant right's activists, who carry signs reminding us that mutants are humans too, and are entitled to protection by the Constitution - an arguement reminescent of the struggle of African- Americans for recognition as people and not property. Reporting live from Manhattan, I'm Trish Tilby. Back to you, Bob."  
  
"Thank you, Trish. For more on this developing story, please tune in to Action News at 12, 5, 5:30, 6, 11, --"  
  
Charles turned off the radio and sunk into his chair, an empty, punched feeling resonating through his gut. A "diseased, dangerous, and unwanted animal"? How many humans thought of him and his kind in those terms? Resting his chin on clasped hands he wondered - not for the first time - if his was perhaps a fool's dream, if he even had a chance of destroying such ignorance, if it was already too late to make a difference.  
  
A brisk knock on his door startled him out of his brooding despondency and he pushed any doubts about his goal and methods out of his mind. He was doing the right thing. If he wasn't there was no point to anything.  
  
"Come in, Moira." He composed himself as she sat on the edge of his desk and pushed a sheaf of papers into his hands. She watched him intently over the rims of her glasses as he sifted through them, her unintelligible handwriting making his eyes cross. "What are these? Medical tests?"  
  
"Diagnostic examinations, Charley. That infernal Cerebro contraption of yours must be broken. It can't even detect what's sitting under it's very nose." She leaned forward as he looked more closely at the paperwork, struggling to decipher it. "Your young neighbor? Douglas Ramsey? He's a mutant, gifted with the ability to instantly understand and translate any language in creation, be it verbal, written, electronic, mechanical - even body language, Charles! Think about the possibilities, what he could be trained to do, what he could accomplish with such a remarkable power."  
  
"Did Katherine know? She's been spending rather a lot of time with that young man," he frowned.  
  
She shook her head. "No, I don't think she even suspected. She assumed, as he did, that he was extremely intelligent, and nothing more."  
  
"So I take it you've already informed him of the results of these tests?"  
  
"I told him only because he needed to be warned. That White Witch of the Inner Circle is trying to get her claws into him," she said, her contempt for the other woman obvious. "Charles, Kitty has already spoken to him about mutancy in general, as well as this institution. I thought it would be easier on the boy if he heard it from a close friend. I hope you don't mind."  
  
"No, no, I don't mind. However, I am wondering why I was left in the dark about this until now...." he trailed off, unable to finish, as first a wave of dizziness hit him and then the pounding began, his brain feeling as though someone had taken an icepick to it. He cradled his head in his hands, willing the pain away and failing miserably.  
  
[pic]  
  
The rain slicked streets of Annandale-on-Hudson were much the same as Jean remembered them being, quaint and old fashioned, lined with majestic trees, cast iron lamps, and patches of cobblestones. From the window she glimpsed the square where the Christmas Carolers stood every year, the drug store that sold peppermint sticks for a nickel, the dusty jewelry shop where she had her first job.  
  
She saw the old movie house on the corner of Main and Lincoln and remembered when, sticky with sweat and dirt and popcicle drippings, she and her friends would take leave of their games and join their classmates in the front rows of the noisy, cool matinee, a refuge from the worst of the relentless summer sun. Then she was older and preferring the evening show and the balcony, Nick Vittori's hand under her blouse, his eager lips against her own, the heat inside now.  
  
Nick. Tall, dark, and intoxicating. Annie had had a crush on him; but Jean was fifteen before she felt the first stirrings of what would become an all too brief adolescent infatuation. Growing up next door to each other they had been playmates first by necessity and then by choice; had built tree houses in the summer and snow forts in the winter, stood side by side at their First Communion, argued and laughed about nothing and everything, and, one hot Indian summer night on the bank of the Hudson, lost their virginity. They were sixteen and coltish, clumsy and exhilerated. It remained one of the sweetest experiences of her life.  
  
They were on the outskirts of town now, the Masland's apple orchard on her right, the old dirt road that led to the swimming hole on her left, and then they turned on to Barton Lane. She forced herself to look as they came to the curve, even though she feared the vividness of her memories would continue, that she would see Annie lying there, broken, bloody.  
  
The road was empty. She exhaled slowly as they parked in front of the big white farmhouse, gravel crunching under the wheels. Ororo dropped the keys into her purse and turned to Jean, her voice terse and commanding as she broke the silence they had held since leaving the church. "You are my friend and I do not wish to fight with you; but *because* you are my friend, it seems that I must," she began. "If I feel that there is something I must say, something you must hear, I will not stand mutely by and watch as you sink ever deeper into solitude and self-pity - do not interrupt me.  
  
"I am well aware that you have been through a terrible ordeal, one which know I cannot even begin to imagine or commiserate with you about. But I am doing my best, whether you believe me or not, and I would appreciate it if you did not slam the door in my face every time I try to reach out to you. I will not walk on eggshells around you, not because I do not care about your feelings, but because I am convinced that it would be the very worst thing for you. I hope that you can learn to accept this." Without waiting for a response she left the car and began walking toward the house, her carriage straight and self-assured.  
  
Jean caught up with her as she reached the porch and caught her by the arm, forcing the other woman to face her, challenging her silently, the rain beginning to soak them both.  
  
Ororo turned away first.  
  
[pic]  
  
A mother and an elementary school teacher, Sarah Bailey more than loved children, she adored them. They were her life, her inspiration, her one true joy in this often dark and depressing world. Still, as Abby let out yet another ear splitting shriek, she couldn't help but wish they would pipe down occasionally. "Tommy!" she yelled, only a little less loudly than her daughter, "I told you to stop teasing your sister!"  
  
"Mom, I'm not," he protested from upstairs. "I'm helping Nana."  
  
Frowning now, Sarah turned off the faucet and wiped her hands on her apron as Abby came hurtling into the kitchen and wrapped her arms around her mother's waist. Sarah knelt and hugged her. "What's wrong, honey?"  
  
"I saw a ghost."  
  
Sarah smiled and stood, picking the child up, saddened by the knowledge that soon she would be too big to be held like a baby. "There're no such thing as ghosts, sweetheart, you know that. We talked about this, remember?" Abby had been scared of her own shadow for several weeks now, all because a friend's mother had made the unfathomable decision to show "Poltergeist" at a slumber party for seven and eight year old girls.  
  
"Mommy," she insisted, "I did see one. I know I did."  
  
"How do you know it was a ghost and not a shadow? Or a cat? Or an Oompa- Loompa?"  
  
Abby smiled weakly. "Because Aunt Jean doesn't look like an Oompa-Loompa."  
  
Sarah's stomach began to churn as she set the child on the floor. "Abigail, you saw your Aunt Jean?"  
  
"I'm afraid I startled her," Jean said evenly, coming into the kitchen, tossing her coat over the back of a chair as she had hundreds of times before. "Hello, Sarah. Miss me?"  
  
[pic]  
  
"This is ridiculous. I do not need a CAT Scan." Charles tried to hop down off of the infirmary table; but Moira blocked him with her hands.  
  
"And just where did you recieve your medical degree?" she inquired, leveling the bulk of his resistance with her glare.  
  
"It was just a migraine," he said meekly. "I get them all the time. All telepaths do. You're over-reacting."  
  
"Charles, you know as well as I do that migraines do not come on with no warning, last for a few minutes, and then disappear; and if you say that yours do, you're a damn liar."  
  
"Moira," he cajoled, "be reasonable. This body - this perfect, artificially created body let me remind you - isn't even six months old yet. What could be seriously wrong with it?"  
  
"Well, we won't know until we look, now will we?"  
  
He tried a different tactic. "Why don't we compromise? If I have another of these abrupt headaches, no matter how insignificant *I* think it is, I will come to you immediately and let you run all the tests you wish. Until then, just refill my Fioricet, and let me continue with my work. Please?"  
  
She thought about it for a long minute. "Fine. But if you drop dead, you'll have no one to blame but yourself." She busied herself at the drug cupboard while he rolled down his shirt sleeve and put his jacket back on. "Will you do me a favor and try not to run yourself ragged during the next twenty- four hours at least?"  
  
He nodded diligently. "I think I can manage that."  
  
[pic]  
  
The last time Jean had spoken to her parents she had threatened to kill them, meaning it with every ounce of her being. This time she had lied to them.  
  
And she hated herself for it.  
  
She had spun a tale of trying to kill herself and not succeeding, of being believed dead, of spending the following year and a half recovering both physically and mentally. They had asked not a single question, believing her fully because they wanted to.  
  
She longed to tell them the truth, to have them understand and accept her for who she was and who she had been; but one brief glance at their thoughts had told her that it would be impossible. It was one thing to acknowledge their daughter first as a mutant, then as a superheroine, and finally as a villianess. It was entirely another to believe that she could raise herself from the dead at will. They would not even attempt it, and that hurt.  
  
She was wounded much more deeply by the realization that they wished she was still 'dead', and that this wish was not in their subconscious even, but buried within the layers of their conscious minds. She saw why they would want that - they had mourned her, and now she was back, ripping open old wounds - but it didn't make it any easier, especially when they were keeping themselves at such a distance, emotionally, from her. She should have left them with the consolation given them by the crystal Lilandra had made and not disrupted their lives. She had been wrong to come here.  
  
She could hear their muffled voices and clear thoughts through the wall and fought the urge to clap her hands over her ears, concentrating instead on the task at hand. When she had died, Charles had had all her things shipped here, and so they had not been destroyed when the mansion was. Now she was sitting cross-legged on the floor of her old room, determining what to take.  
  
"That is a magnificent tree," Ororo said from where she stood by the window, the tension between them still palpable but beginning to fade.  
  
"It is beautiful," Jean agreed, looking over her shoulder at the big oak that stood directly outside her window, it's outer branches scratching the glass in the wind. "I used to climb in it all the time. Well, until I fell and broke my arm." She finished packing the second box of clothing, sealed it, and turned to the rest of the stuff they had pulled out of the closet. "We used to use it to sneak out of the house, when we were teenagers. Sarah more than I," she remembered fondly. "Neither of us were ever caught. Imagine my distress when I moved into the impregnable fortress Charles calls home."  
  
"Why did you?"  
  
"Why did I what?"  
  
"Join the X-Men. You were young, and had a happy life here. Charles had already helped you learn to control your powers. Why did you go to him again?" she asked, joining Jean on the floor and sifting through a box of record albums. "Are you going to take all of these?"  
  
"I have original Pink Floyd and The Doors in there. Of course I am," she replied, then frowned. "I did what Charles asked simply because he did ask. I was so grateful to him, so...beholden. I still feel that intense gratitude, although it's been many years since it's been free of resentment. Sometimes I feel like --"  
  
Sarah knocked lightly on the door. "May I come in?"  
  
"Please do, but we don't need any more boxes," Jean said, eyeing the cardboard container she carried. "Are the kids okay?" Sarah and Paul had taken them out on a drive to talk to them about their "dead" aunt's sudden reappearance while Jean had an uncomfortable hour alone with her parents.  
  
Ororo excused herself, touching Jean's shoulder lightly as she stood up. They would be okay.  
  
"Yes. I told them the story you made up," Sarah said, sitting down. "Jean, when you died I remembered what happened during that sailing trip we took. You saved my life. I know what you're capable of, and I have no doubt that you really did die. And I want you to know that I still love you," said said with conviction, wiping her tears away as Jean leaned over and hugged her tightly, burying her face in her sister's stomach. "I missed you every day, honey."  
  
"I missed you too." She sat up, wiping her own tears away, and then let out a gasp of delight. "What's in the box?!"  
  
Sarah grinned. "A present. From Tommy and Abby. They wanted you to have her," she said, reaching in and lifting out a squirming little ball of gray and white fur.  
  
Jean took the kitten and cuddled it against her chest. "She's beautiful," she breathed. "Does she have a name?"  
  
"No, we just picked her up. The kids saw the sign on the way back and wanted to give you a welcome home present. What do you want to name her?"  
  
She lifted the kitten to eye level and studied it as it meowed. "Shekhinah. It suits her. You know, Sarah," she smiled, "maybe I should tell Mom and Dad the truth. The reaction could hardly be worse than it was when they found out I had stopped going to Mass and started studying Jewish mysticism."  
  
"What a crisis that was! But it wasn't nearly as bad as the time you snuck too much to drink at the family reunion and the whole way home in the car you were whispering 'SARAH PLEASE DON'T TELL THEM I WAS DRINKING I HAVE TO PEE AGAIN TELL THEM YOU HAVE TO GO SO THEY DON'T THINK I'M DRUNK' so loud they could hear you perfectly; and you smelled so strongly of rum Mom opened all the windows and you didn't even notice," Sarah dissolved into giggles. "Dad's ears kept getting redder and redder - I thought he would strangle you when we got home."  
  
Jean groaned through her laughter. "He probably would have if I hadn't thrown up all over the lawn as soon as I got out of the car. And what about the fit they threw when you came home your freshman year for Christmas break and announced you were married and pregnant?"  
  
"I thought we were talking about your messes, little sister." Sarah stopped laughing and reached over, pushing a stray lock of hair behind Jean's ear. "However Mom and Dad act toward you, I want you to know that I will never push you away or treat you differently because of who you are or what you've done. Never."  
  
[pic]  
  
Slipping from his bed, Warren Worthington stepped out onto the balcony that adjoined his bedroom and stretched his snowy white wings toward the heavens, the sun's light bathing his well muscled body and glinting off his tousled golden hair. The early afternoon air over New Mexico was dry, sweet, and warm. Perfect for flying.  
  
The wooden planking was cool under his bare feet as he walked to the railing and gently flapped his wings - once, twice, then a third time - as he prepared to take off; and his anticipation built as he thought of soaring through the sky, the wind caressing his naked body, and the surge of liberty he would experience when he was free of the earth.  
  
"Warren? Telephone - it's Scott in Westchester and it sounds important," Candy Southern called from the bedroom, her sweet, high voice drowsy with sleep. Warren sighed and walked back into the house. Freedom would have to wait a little longer.  
  
He glanced appreciatively at his lover's lush curves and creamy skin as he took the phone from her and cradled it against his ear. "Hello, Scott, when did you get back to Westchester? I thought you'd still be in Alaska," he began jovially, as he tried (half-heartedly) not to be distracted by Candy, who, in an attempt to lure him back into bed, was slowly kissing his chest and neck. As he listened to what his old friend had to say the color left his face and he twisted away from her embrace, motioning for her to leave him. No stranger to the life of a superhero, Candy gave a disappointed "Hmph", slipped on a robe, and went to start the coffee.  
  
When she returned Warren was sitting on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. She sat down beside him, stroking one soft wing with her fingers, her jet black curls falling over her shoulder. "What's wrong, baby? Is somebody hurt? Dead?"  
  
"No." He raised his head, a bittersweet smile on his lips. "No, no one's dead. Someone's alive." 


	9. Eight

Risen  
  
Chapter Eight  
  
Â   
  
The most vivid memory Scott Summers had of his mother was of her scent, a spicy, warm cinnamon smell, comforting in its simplicity. She had been tall, almost as tall as Dad, but she was rounded and curved, no sharp angles anywhere when she pressed you to her, imparting a kiss, a hug, a joke, a story. He could never quite remember her face without looking at a photograph; but he knew that her eyes had been blue, like Alex's, her mouth pensive like his own. He recalled how she would sweep her thick, blonde hair into a ponytail as she scrubbed the floors and bandaged scraped knees and worked at her easel and planted tomatoes in the garden, wearing her paint splattered bell bottoms and faded hippie tee shirts, humming a nameless tune under her breath.  
  
During the long months that followed the end of his childhood, as he lay isolated in a red nightmare world of pain and heat and fear, it was that remembered strain of music, that soothing perfume, that pulled him through, that gave him the will to heal. Later, when the bandages came off and his prison changed its name from hospital to orphanage, when he learned he was alone, that his parents were dead, his brother given a home, his brain damaged from the fall - it was those same now vague memories that became the foundation on which he braced all of his strength as he was ignored by the adults and tormented by the other boys.  
  
The day he turned eightteen he had walked out of that place with everything he owned in the world on his back and nowhere to go; but with a cool, too calm gladness in his now perfectly controlled heart, quietly rejoicing his new found freedom. Nearly a decade later, as he gathered his thoughts outside the Professor's door, he was not entirely surprised to feel an anticipatory twinge of the same emotion.  
  
Charles stood by the windows, his hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders stooped forward and his head lowered; and Scott was struck by how aged he looked in that moment - not old per se, but worn down.  
  
Almost defeated.  
  
And then he turned and smiled tiredly but warmly, and reached out his hands, beckoning the younger man in; and he was himself again, a pillar of strength and support on whom you could depend and put your trust. A mentor, a teacher. A father.  
  
"Something's weighing heavily on your mind," Charles stated. "What can I do to help?"  
  
Scott shifted his lanky frame uneasily, trying to find the best way to begin. Be blunt, get it out. Then talk about it. "Sir, I'm not coming back to the X-Men."  
  
Too blunt. A light went out in Charles' eyes. He stiffened. "I see. Well, I must say this is quite a surprise, Scott. I had assumed --"  
  
"That's part of it, Professor," Scott interrupted. "You assumed that I would be coming back. Everyone assumed; and that made me realize that any notions I had of rejoining the team were based on other people's assumptions, rather than on anything within me."  
  
"Where is this coming from, Scott?" Charles asked heavily. "I thought being an X-Man was what you wanted."  
  
"It is. But it's not all I want." He had gone over this speech in his head a dozen times. "I'm more than just a soldier, Professor, more than just a leader. More than just an X-Man. Being out there...in the the 'real world'....it made me aware that I've neglected the other parts of myself for far too long - parts I didn't even know existed. I have to do this. I need to."  
  
"If that's the way you feel," Charles responded flatly, "I wish you luck." Hating himself, he turned away, hiding his pain. Seeing the truth of the boy's words in his mind only made it worse.  
  
Scott took off his glasses for a moment, rubbing his eyes. "This is hard for me too. Please try to understand."  
  
"I am. Trying. I'm simply taken aback," Charles said. "I suppose I should have seen it coming; but the fact is it's the very last thing I would have expected."  
  
Scott smiled wryly. "Maybe that's the best reason of all for me to do it." Silence. "Professor, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. Not that I made this choice; but that it's hurt you." Still nothing. He moved to the door, speaking so quietly and reflectively that Charles had to strain to hear him. "I know that you've always wanted me to follow in your footsteps. You've made that very clear; and because you were the only person who cared back then, who saw something worthwhile in me, I did what you asked, became what you wanted me to be....I have to tell you that if I could go back and do it all over again....I would.  
  
"I'm proud of the man you helped me to become, Charles. I'm proud that because I followed you, I have helped make the world a better place. I am proud to say, 'I believe in this man, and what he stands for'; and we can disagree over the little things and grow apart in terms of where our lives take us; but nothing will ever change the fact that at this moment, I am proud to be your son."  
  
[pic]  
  
"I think I ought to be going now, Daddy."  
  
"But you just got here," John Grey protested. "Please, Jean, stay awhile longer. For dinner at least."  
  
She shook her head, already buttoning up her coat. "Dad, I can't."  
  
"Is this about your mother? She loves you, baby, she's glad you're back. She's just in shock." Elaine had hardly been able to look at her daughter, and after their talk she had locked herself in her room with the holempathic crystal, an action that had cut deeper than Jean was willing to admit even to herself.  
  
"I know. I still have to go." She paused, arranging her scarf around her neck "I'll visit again soon."  
  
"No you won't."  
  
No, she probably wouldn't. But it was the right thing to say. "I'll call." She bent down to pick up the kitten that was busy rubbing against her ankle, telepathically inducing sleep in the animal as she did. "I already said good-bye to Sarah. Give my love to Mom? And tell her....tell her that I'm sorry. For everything."  
  
He nodded solemnly. "I know that the way in which you've chosen to live is a very dangerous one; but I also know that you love it and that it's a part of you. I may not understand your motivations or your life, but you're an adult whom I respect, and I won't ask you to change. But, Jean, I'm begging you, don't take the unnecessary risks. Burying you again would be more than I could bear."  
  
[pic]  
  
As he stepped off of his private Learjet and entered Westchester County Airport, Warren glanced at his watch and scowled, the expression of displeasure marring his angelic features. The air had been turbulent over the plains, and as they had neared the coast the rain had swept in, delaying them even further and increasing Warren's anxiety. Airplanes had always given him a caged, uneasy feeling, and the prospect of seeing Jean again only served to augment his apprehension.  
  
It wasn't that he didn't want to see her. He was genuinely thrilled that she was alive, and with each moment that passed he grew more excited at the thought of being reunited. She had been a valued teammate, one of his best friends, the only girl that he, the suave, shameless, billionaire playboy had ever had a crush on; and yet something gnawed at him, a dim guilt that was all too easy to explain.  
  
When called upon to fight the Imperial Guard for her life, he had discovered reasons why he, as a hero, could not, in good conscience, defend a woman who had committed the unspeakable crimes she had, regardless of the excuses offered in her defense. Nor could he defend her based on the person he knew her to be because he suddenly wasn't sure if he had ever known who she was. In the end he had fought only because he could not ignore the shattered, stricken look in her eyes.  
  
But he could doubt it.  
  
It wasn't until he was dressing for her funeral that he realized how wrong he had been, that any facade he had suspected had sprung entirely from his own mind and that her regret had been both sincere and profound. Acknowledging his mistake, he had cried bitterly until it was time to leave for the cemetary and the torturous ceremony that had seemed to cement his failure.  
  
Over time his guilt had lessened, but he had never entirely let go of the notion that if he had truly believed in her, she would have lived. If he hadn't held something back in the battle, if he hadn't made stupid mistakes that were perhaps intentional, if he had fought as diligently and fiercely for her as he had for countless strangers, perhaps that would have made the difference --  
  
The unpleasant sensation of Candy's nails digging into his arm brought him back to the present. "Have you heard a word I've said?" she asked, obviously irritated with him. He turned his head toward her, saw the look in her eyes, and correctly guessed the true reason for her ire.  
  
"Don't ruin this for me, Candy," he warned as he halted their progress. "I'm sick of this petty jealousy you wallow in whenever I have anything to do with Jean."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "And I'm sick of watching you disrespect me whenever she's around."  
  
"Then don't watch", he replied brusquely, pulling his wallet out and pressing a credit card into her hand. "Go buy yourself a new dress or something. I'll call you tomorrow." She fingered the cool plastic for a moment, considering her options, then flounced off, black curls bouncing against her back.  
  
He watched her go, more frustrated than angry. Neither woman had ever done anything to hurt the other, as far as he could tell, why couldn't they just get along? He shook his head, perplexed, and caught a glimpse of Scott by the bank of phones, his nose buried in a worn paperback.  
  
"Scotty!" he called enthusiastically, picking up his bag and crossing the corridor to shake hands heartily with his friend. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting long."  
  
Scott shrugged. "I was early. Hank and Bobby are here, and Ororo called about an hour ago, so we should hurry."  
  
"Any word from Alex and Lorna?" As they stepped outside into the rain he covered his head with his newspaper, for once glad that his wings were concealed beneath his suit.  
  
"Apparently Alex went into Albuquerque for supplies yesterday and Lorna doesn't want to leave the dig unattended at this stage," Scott replied, digging in his pocket for his car keys. "She sends her regrets."  
  
[pic]  
  
"Don't regret seeing your parents tonight," Ororo said thoughtfully. "You should never regret seeing your parents, no matter what the circumstances."  
  
"It's not that I regret seeing them," Jean explained, "not really, although I haven't been very close to them since I was a kid....I do regret seeing the pain this has caused them. I regret finding out that my mother would rather hug a tacky knick-knack than me --"  
  
"You may not care for it; but the holmepathic crystal was a rare and wondrous gift that helped alleviate your parents' grief. It gave them strength when they needed it most; and it took a great deal of courage for Lilandra to come to the funeral and present it in person."  
  
Jean looked surprised. "Lilandra came to my funeral?"  
  
"She was deeply distressed."  
  
"I'll bet," Jean muttered sarcastically. "I sure hope the crocodile tears didn't muss her make-up."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Nothing. Can I drive the rest of the way?" she asked, turning pleading eyes toward her friend. "I've been itching to get back behind the wheel."  
  
"Thank you, I'm fine," Ororo replied sweetly. "We're almost home. I would like to make it there alive."  
  
"You've been listening to Scott, haven't you? He's been filling your head with all kinds of crazy stories about what a terrible driver I am, hasn't he?" Jean sniffed, feigning injury.  
  
"Jean, you are a terrible driver."  
  
"I am not! I'm just more.....adventurous than most people."  
  
"I suppose that's one way of putting it."  
  
"You know, some people enjoy my driving," Jean ruminated. "Logan says it's exhilarating."  
  
"Thank you for making my point for me," Ororo replied, turning off the highway and into Salem Center. "Would you like to stop at Harry's for a drink?"  
  
"Sure. I'm getting kind of hungry too." She stretched her legs and shifted sideways in her seat. "So, who are we meeting?"  
  
"Jean, you looked!" Ororo accused, appearing slightly aghast.  
  
"No, no," she laughed, "I swear, I didn't peek. My ordinary human intuition tipped me off."  
  
Ororo slid into a parking space across the street from the popular tavern, turning off the headlights but leaving the wipers on. "I suppose that's allowed," she responded, mollified, "but I'm not doing anything else to ruin the surprise. If you want to know who's there, you'll have to go in and see."  
  
"It's my boys," she grinned. "Am I right?"  
  
"Goddess, Jean, just go."  
  
Harry's was busy for a Sunday, hazy from smoke and pleasantly loud. Jean hung her coat by the door and scanned the room with eyes and mind, searching for her friends and sighting them gathered around a table at the back, laughing and talking; and for a long moment she stood there, motionless, content for now to simply watch them be.  
  
[pic]  
  
While her husband had turned his grief over their son's death into anger and a thirst for vengeance, Rebecca Essex had sunk into a deep despair that had quickly eroded her spirit, leaving her broken and empty.  
  
Adam had been her soul, her every hope and dream, the sum of her being. She couldn't even begin to deal with his death, with this pain that was so great and consuming that at times she imagined she could feel each individual cell in her body as it withered and died, having been kept too long from her child.  
  
In her mind, Nathaniel had simply ceased to exist, the last clear memory she had of him was when he had told her he had come back without their baby, that she would never see him again, ever, not until she died and oh, she wanted to die almost more than she wanted Adam back but she barely had the strength to keep breathing....she couldn't think about lifting her hand to pick up a razor or a knife or a gun or even a bottle of pills.  
  
She heard the door open and burrowed down into her nest of blankets, the air around her head quickly becoming almost unbearably humid. She prayed she would suffocate.  
  
"Rebecca...."  
  
Go away.  
  
"Rebecca?"  
  
You took my baby. Go away.  
  
"Rebecca, please, please," his voice cracked in agony, catching her attention for the briefest moment. "I need you. I think I've made a terrible mistake."  
  
[pic]  
  
"Shhhhhhh. You're going to wake everyone up," Scott whispered, pulling Jean by the hand through the darkened foyer.  
  
"Sorry." She clapped her hands over her mouth and dissolved into peals of muffled laughter, losing her balance and crashing into an end table. "Ooops."  
  
Miraculously, no one seemed to stir. Scott sighed, pulling her to her feet and swinging her over his shoulder. She giggled as he felt his way up the staircase and down the hall to her room where he switched on her lamp and dumped her unceremoniously on the bed. "I had fun tonight," she announced as he took off her shoes and socks. "It was so happy. Are you happy?" She arched her back helpfully as he undid the buttons on her pants and slid them down her legs.  
  
"Yes, I'm happy. I'd be happier if you made me a promise though."  
  
"I can do that," she slurred as he pulled her into a sitting position and tried to manuever her arms out of her sweater, "I can do anything." The difficult garment disappeared into thin air. "See?" she asked, obviously pleased with herself. "I helped!"  
  
"Thank you," he said wearily, deciding to forego pajamas and just let her sleep in her underwear. "Please don't try and drink Hank under the table again. He's four times your size."  
  
"Okey dokey." She saluted him sharply and fell back on the bed. "Ow!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"My hairpins." She felt for the back of her head and missed.  
  
"I'll get it." Gently he reached into the tangled mass of hair and pulled out three long pins that had held her bun in place. "Are these all of them?"  
  
She squinted up at him. "You're going to have to put some back. I only had three."  
  
"Good night, Jeannie." He kissed her tenderly on the forehead, turning out the light and opening her windows as he left for his own room.  
  
Slowly the cold night breeze helped sharpen her focus enough to concentrate and she closed her eyes, allowing her mind to fully enter the astral plane, it's cleansing properties stripping the effects of her intoxication away as though they had never existed. She stretched languidly as she entered her body again, going to the window and perching herself on the sill, feeling the first stirrings of a familiar yearning.  
  
The rain had stopped some time after midnight, leaving the sky brilliantly polished, allowing the moon to bathe her with it's radiance, and she shivered with delight, an anticipatory thrill coursing through her body. She cocked her head, the whispering of the stars growing louder as they called to her, the song in her soul responding in kind, all awareness of anything outside herself melting away as she drifted into the sensations, embracing them, wrapping herself in the unearthly pleasure they brought, rediscovering herself, the desire inside her intensifying until she gave in, leaving her window her room her world, blessedly, joyously free within her element.  
  
Alive. 


	10. Nine

Risen  
  
Chapter Nine  
  
Â   
  
Jean tossed her head as she stepped back, tangled copper hair damp against the nape of her neck. "Come on, Logan," she teased, breathless. "Don't tell me you're worn out already."  
  
"Darlin', I've barely begun." He circled slowly, closing the distance between them by half, smelling her heat, the salt of her sweat, gauging how much strength she had left before lashing out with a perfectly executed right hook. She blocked his fist with her forearm and kicked, her foot catching him high in the chest and knocking him back several feet.  
  
He dropped into a crouch to avoid the roundhouse she had followed through with during their third bout and found himself almost catching a back kick full in the face, his superior reflexes preventing a badly broken nose as he grabbed her ankle with his hand and jerked her toward him. She shrieked as she slammed into the mat, twisting in his grasp to free herself and bouncing to her feet with an easy, fluid grace. He grinned.  
  
"Like what you see?" she asked, pausing to rub a sore muscle in her leg.  
  
"You know I do."  
  
She arched a delicate eyebrow. "I'm talking about my fighting skills."  
  
"No you're not." He saw the smile fade from her face and regretted his words immediately, having crossed some unspoken line in speaking the truth. "Your uppercut needs work," he continued gruffly, moving to stand behind her. He held her bent elbow in his palm, his fingers guiding the upward sweeping motion of her arm. Because she was left-handed it was slightly awkward, they both tensed as his bare chest pressed against her back, his hand brushing too closely along her hip and stomach as they completed the move. "See? It's more like this....."  
  
"Logan, stop." When she turned he saw her bottom lip was trembling faintly; her eyes told him that it wasn't fear. He tore himself away before he kissed her, cursing himself and the certainty that he would burn for her until he died.  
  
He picked up his towel and wiped his brow, then rubbed it through his unruly black hair. "I don't know what the hell I was thinkin', Jean."  
  
"Forget it," she said quietly. "You know...I like Mariko."  
  
"She's the best person I've ever known," he said with a rueful smile. "Now I understand what you see in Slim."  
  
"Then you understand why nothing serious ever happened between you and I." She sat and began to stretch, seamlessly moving from one yogic position to the next.  
  
"Yeah, I do. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I didn't make things very easy for you -- I wasn't seein' the whole picture, just the parts I was in."  
  
"You have changed," she remarked solemnly. "You've grown. Everyone has."  
  
"Don't look so bummed, Jeannie. I still think you're hotter than hell."  
  
She laughed, grateful to have him as her friend. "Thank you for doing this, Logan - teaching me, I mean."  
  
"Thanks for agreein' to it. I think it'll do you good, not havin' to rely completely on your powers in a fight."  
  
"It's fun too," she grinned. "Hey, does Mariko enjoy the ballet? A group of us are going to see Swan Lake next weekend, and I was thinking about asking her along."  
  
"She'd like that. She doesn't have many friends in America; and I worry that she's lonely." He joined her on the mat. "Are you helpin' Scott move into the brownstone?"  
  
Jean finished stretching and lay still, her knees bent. "No, he's recruited manly men. I'll stop by later."  
  
[pic]  
  
"As the high profile murder trial of Reverend William Stryker enters it's third day, the state is reportedly planning to subpoena the X-Men, seen here with the defendant last January in Madison Square Garden. In addition, the FBI is offering the mutant outlaws immunity from prosecution for past crimes in return for voluntary cooperation in the ongoing investigation of Stryker's origanization. Here with us today is FBI Agent Fred Duncan. Agent Duncan, polls show that the majority of the American people not only view the X-Men as criminals but feel that prosecuting a well respected clergyman like Reverend Stryker is a waste of time and money. Can you tell us why the federal government feels the need to enlist the X-Men's aid in this matter?"  
  
"First of all, this 'well respected clergyman' murdered a woman in cold blood, on national television, simply because she was a mutant. The defense itself does not dispute his actions, only his guilt. The bureau does not and will not tolerate the perpetration of hate crimes against any segment of the population, even if they are unpopular, and furthermore--"  
  
"Agent Duncan, are you saying that the goverment officially recognizes mutants as citizens--"  
  
"What I am saying, Ms. Courick, is that until a Constitutional amendment is passed that specifically declares mutants to be non-citizens or non-humans, the government doesn't have a choice in the matter--"  
  
"I'm not sure if I want to immerse myself in this." Matt Murdock turned his attention from the television and leaned back, fingers laced behind his head. "The possible implications of a case like this are staggering; and I could do without the publicity."  
  
"Come on, Matt. Half your clients leave you plastered all over the nightly news," Peter Parker reminded him dryly. "At least this is one you can be proud of. Somewhat."  
  
"They will need a lawyer....."  
  
"They'll need you." Peter glanced at his watch and stood, slinging his bag across his shoulder. "And I need to get down to the Bugle. I'll catch you later."  
  
"Thanks for stopping by, Peter." Matt pushed his chair out from behind his desk and shook the other man's hand firmly. "I'll let you know what I decide."  
  
[pic]  
  
Although he loved each one of his students and relished the guidance he gave them, Charles had never enjoyed teaching academics - in truth, it left him feeling bored and disappointed, the latter emotion stemming from his youthful idea that he would love teaching, and would be good at it.  
  
Oh, they learned from him, listened to him, and respected him; but he never felt as though he were inspiring a true passion in them, the way he did when he preached his dream. He wanted them to listen to lectures on Milton or Calculus with that same rapt attention, he wanted them to spit out their gum and sit up straight and stop whispering and giggling and writing notes and bickering; but it seemed that the more he tried to make them understand this, the less they did.  
  
Moira had suggested long ago that he make learning more fun, or some such thing, and to his credit he had tried, taking his first students with him on a Washington business trip and then dipping down into the Shenandoah Valley for a tour of Civil War battlefields. He felt a wave of nausea at the mere memory of the experience, still horrified at the way his previously intelligent, mature, well mannered young adults had gradually deteriorated into a bunch of brats who alternately whined that they were bored, complained that it was too hot, fought with each other, or ganged up on him. The disaster had culminated with their forcible ejection from a particularly illustrious museum after an incident which involved all five of them, soaking wet from being caught out in the rain after wandering away from the guided tour, running helter-skelter through the building hurling crabapples at each other.  
  
Never again, he had sworn. Never again.  
  
He entered the small classroom as the bell rang, his mind sweeping over his current children, gauging their receptiveness as they took their seats and quieted down. "I trust you have all read the assignment?" His gaze fell on the student most likely to be prepared. "Rahne. What did the Babylonian Captivity, in combination with the bubonic plague and the Great Schism of the West, contribute to?"  
  
"The Hussites in Bohemia and the Lollards and John Wyclif in England," she answered promptly, adjusting her skirt around her knees.  
  
"Don't forget the Black Mass, the Order of Flagellants, and the Dance of Death," Illyana volunteered, appearing to be vaguely interested. She turned lazily in her seat to look at her classmate. "They were the best parts."  
  
Rahne glowered and stared down at her notes; a faint hint of a smirk touched Illyana's lips. Kitty and Doug snickered. Amara yawned discreetly.  
  
Charles glanced at the clock.  
  
[pic]  
  
"Ororo Munroe? My name's Vanessa Wright. I'm here on behalf of the law offices of Collins, Chamberlain, and Jones." Curious brown eyes looked around with interest as she stepped into the foyer.  
  
"What is this about?" Ororo shook the proffered hand cautiously. Well meaning strangers were a rarity at the mansion.  
  
"This. It belonged to your father," Vanessa explained as she handed over the small packet. "It opens a safe deposit box at the east Harlem branch of First National Bank."  
  
"My father?" Ororo choked, staring at the silver key that spilled out of the envelope to nestle in her palm. "How did you find me?" she demanded suspiciously. "My parents died twenty years ago, in Africa. There is nothing to link me to them."  
  
"I was given a discription of your mother," Vanessa began patiently. "There was a clip of the X-Men on the Today show, and I noticed that 'Storm' bears an uncanny resemblance to N'Dare Munroe. The X-Men are most frequently seen in the New York area. There's a listing for an O. Munroe in the Westchester phone book. You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to put it together."  
  
"No....I suppose you don't." Papa. She motioned absently toward the kitchen, memories of his pipe and moustaches thick in her head. She had stood on his feet when they danced. "May I offer you a cup of coffee?"  
  
"No thanks. I've got to pick up my son at school in an hour. Besides," she continued, "if I come in for coffee, the next thing I know I've been brainwashed into forgetting that this ever happened and I'd really rather not do that."  
  
"We do not brainwash people," Ororo answered stiffly.  
  
"Sure you don't. Look, I really do have to be going; but don't worry - I'm not going to show up on Hard Copy exposing the true identity of Storm or anything. I promise," she added hastily as the temperature in the foyer plunged a good ten degrees. "I generally try to not cause problems for other people. It's bad karma."  
  
The woman seemed honest, albeit annoying. Perhaps it would be for the best to take a chance and trust. Charles would not approve; but Charles need not know. There was so much on his mind already. "I have your word? You will not speak of this to any one? Ever?"  
  
"Cross my heart and hope to die," Vanessa responded, her bracelets clinking together as she waved her hand in a nebulous way across her chest. "Which is what will probably happen to me anyway if I tell, right?"  
  
"We do not kill people either," Ororo stated coldly, walking to the door and holding it open. "I think you had best leave now."  
  
"There's no need to be so rude--" The door slammed shut behind her. "Hmph. You're welcome." She refrained from making a vulgar gesture. Mutants were so touchy.  
  
[pic]  
  
It was cold in the house. Rebecca pulled the blanket that draped her shoulders closer to her body and shuffled down the stairs, her eyes fixated on the floor.  
  
Don't look at the walls. Don't look at the photographs. Don't look at Adam.  
  
She made it though the living room, and then the library. She bit her lip as her hip hit the sharp corner of a desk and she hated herself for feeling the pain. Adam must have hurt so much more. He must have been so scared...  
  
She lifted her head only when she had entered the kitchen and fastened the door behind her. The kitchen was safe. There were no pictures there, no books, no scattered toys. Nathaniel had taken Adam's drawings off the refrigerator. She wanted to know where they were but could not bring herself to ask.  
  
"Nathaniel......" Her throat ached when she spoke to her husband. "I've been thinking. About what you told me."  
  
"I didn't think you heard me," he groaned. "I didn't think you heard anything."  
  
"I heard." She sat across from him and laid her head on the table. "I don't need justice, Nathaniel. It doesn't mean anything. I don't want revenge. It won't bring Adam back. I just have to know."  
  
"You don't hate me?"  
  
"No. I don't hate you." He reached his hand towards her and she jerked away. "Don't touch me."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't be sorry," she said. "Just don't touch me."  
  
[pic]  
  
From his vantage point on the roof opposite the brownstone, Jason Wyngarde watched. Waited. Contemplated the past, the future. Thoughts of how he'd make her pay for her betrayal were almost more erotic than the ones in which she was his again, body and soul.  
  
At last she came around the corner, confident, smiling, bag swinging in her hand. She was wearing all black, black like she had worn for him, her short dress and long leather jacket clinging to her curves, her knee high boots contrasting with the pale flesh of her legs, but she wasn't wearing it for him now, she was wearing it for that boy, that pathetic, blind, boy.  
  
Whore.  
  
She'd be sorry for crossing him. She'd love him again.  
  
Even if it killed her. 


	11. Ten

Risen  
  
Chapter Ten  
  
  
  
Ororo had found only two photographs in the safe deposit box, a snapshot of her father holding her as an infant, her face scrunched and ruddy, and a posed portrait of her mother, as elegant and refined as a sculpture, ivory hair falling in waves to her waist. She had been disappointed to find so few visual remembrances of her parents among their belongings, having expected her father's profession as a photojournalist to carry over into the realm of the familial.  
  
The contents of the box had been largely mundane, including the deed to their house in Harlem, Social Security cards, birth certificates, a marriage license, $1500 in cash; but there were also items of a more personal nature - a beautiful embroidered gown her mother had worn as a young woman in Africa, the headpiece that had designated her rank as princess of the tribe, ornate bracelets, anklets, and earrings. Ororo hadn't been prepared to find such intimate objects; she had assumed her mother would have brought the treasures with her to Egypt, even though her father's assignment was to have lasted no longer than six months.  
  
She still missed them so very much.  
  
With a melancholy sigh she replaced the jewelry in its case and closed the lid, sliding it under her bed along with the rest of the things she had taken home from the bank.  
  
"Ororo?" Jean appeared at the door, rolling a bottle of pearly white polish between her palms, her hair done up in curlers. "Do you have a minute?"  
  
"Of course," she said, following her friend across the hall and seating herself on the edge of a chair laden with clothing. "I like this one," she continued, pointing out a long, diaphanous garment the same pale green as sea foam.  
  
"So do I; but it just doesn't look right tonight. What do you think of that one?" she asked, motioning toward a simple bias-cut cocktail dress that lay on the bed.  
  
"Try it on."  
  
"Let me finish this first," she said, carefully applying polish to the nails on her right hand. "You're homesick."  
  
"Yes," Ororo confirmed, taking the bottle and Jean's left hand in her own. "Even after all this time, I still do not feel that I truly belong here. This land....it does not speak to me as Africa does. It does not comfort me in the same way."  
  
"Like a mother?"  
  
"Like a mother." She recapped the bottle and blew lightly on the outstretched fingers to harden the enamel. "There. Now let me see the dress."  
  
"Why don't you go back?" Jean asked, slipping out of her robe and into the dress, leaning forward to adjust the top and smoothing the silver georgette fabric over her legs, the hem hitting just below her knees. "Well?"  
  
"You look celestial. I love the detail on the bodice." She handed her the panties and strappy silver heels that sat next to her on the chair. "I have too many responsibilities here. I'm needed."  
  
"Thanks." She finished dressing and checked herself in the mirror. "Do you still enjoy it?"  
  
"Mostly. Other times it begins to feel as though I am trapped."  
  
Jean brushed a faint hint of blush onto her cheeks. "Do you ever hate it? Which lipstick?"  
  
"The one in the middle." Ororo absently began folding the clothes that surrounded her. "It's a noble cause. I do not think I could hate it. I'm just growing tired."  
  
"Rest. We all need a break from this life now and then, no matter how devoted we are." Jean finished her eyes and took the rollers from her hair, large copper curls cascading down about her shoulders. She brushed it lightly and twisted it up, securing it with an intricate clip. "I'm worried about you."  
  
"I shall be fine. It's nothing that I cannot endure. What time is Scott picking you up?"  
  
"A quarter after eight." She laughed shakily. "Can you believe I'm nervous?"  
  
Ororo smiled. "I think it's wonderful."  
  
"That I have butterflies in my stomach?"  
  
"That Scott's still capable of giving you butterflies in your stomach. That your step still lightens when you see him, that your heart still beats faster when he moves to touch you." She paused for a long moment. "I never told you this, but I was no more pleased about your relationship with Scott than was Logan. I didn't think he was good for you, and I felt that he didn't understand you, or love you as he should have."  
  
"Why would you think that?" Jean asked, turning from the mirror as she put her earrings on.  
  
"It was his reaction when we thought that you and Hank had died in Antarctica. He didn't mourn you."  
  
"He explained that to me. It hurt too badly. He couldn't--"  
  
"It was more than that. He told me as much in the Savage Land," she said. "The important thing is that soon after he came to realize what he had in you, and when you did die, he mourned more deeply and honestly than I would have thought possible. I still do not believe he is everything you need, but I now respect him immensely, as a man as well as a leader, and if he makes you happy, that is enough for me."  
  
[pic]  
  
The atmosphere of the Four Seasons Hotel was posh and sophisticated, decadent without being overstated, and a place that usually made Charles feel at ease. Tonight, however, as he made his way through the lobby and into the bar, he was acutely aware of the apprehension he always felt whenever he wasn't in complete control of the situation. He reached his destination, a secluded corner table, and extended his hand as the young man rose to greet him. "Mr. Murdock, I presume?"  
  
"It's an honor, Professor Xavier," Matt replied graciously, motioning for Charles to be seated. "May I offer you a drink?"  
  
"No, thank you." He leaned back into the soft leather chair and silently appraised his companion, surprised to find in him the same physical qualities that were evident in his X-Men, a strength, stamina, and control that didn't surface often in lawyers. He was obviously more than he appeared to be. "We are both intelligent men, Mr. Murdock," Charles continued. "I propose that we dispense with the pleasantries and focus on why you called me here tonight."  
  
"Certainly. I asked you to meet me because I wish to have a message relayed to the X-Men."  
  
"And you would like to relay this message through me?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Charles' tone was icy. "I know I am a frequent speaker on the topic of genetics and mutancy, as well as a visible advocate of mutant rights, but that does not necessitate an association with vigilantes."  
  
"I never said it did," Matt assured him. "However, I do happen to know that you are on speaking terms with the X-Men. I'm not looking to cause them trouble, or you. I'm on your side."  
  
A brief psi-scan showed Murdock was telling the truth. Charles lowered his voice. "I think I deserve to know who is informing you on these matters before I say anything else."  
  
"Spider-Man."  
  
Images blurred across Charles' mind. "He's a friend of yours? A....compatriot?"  
  
"You could say that." Matt tensed, on the defensive, his speculation that Charles Xavier was more than an associate of mutants rapidly becoming a certainty. "Professor, you are of course aware of the trial of William Stryker?" His guest's heart pounded, blood pressure skyrocketed, perspiration increased. He was afraid. Why?  
  
"Yes, I am," Charles confirmed. "It's been the lead story for quite awhile now."  
  
"Then you must also know of the desire of the prosecution to subpoena the testimony of the X-Men. My message for them is simple - they'll need legal counsel. It's not a matter of their best interests to do so, it's a necessity which I wish to provide." He slid his business card across the table.  
  
After a silent moment, Charles picked it up. "Why?"  
  
"I think the treatment of mutants in this country is loathsome," Matt answered honestly. "It makes my blood burn. I only want to see justice done."  
  
[pic]  
  
For most of his life, Scott had viewed romantic love as an abstract concept, something found in books and vague memories of his parents, but nothing he had any hope of experiencing. His adolescence had been spent in an impenetrable private solitude as well as a boys only orphanage; and his experience during his stay on the streets of New York was limited to a bewildering, impersonal encounter with a determined waif named Holly, whose disconsolation had matched his own.  
  
To say he had been wary of women when Jean had joined the X-Men was an understatement of immense proportions. He didn't know how to speak to her, how to act around her; the thought of being alone with her terrified him even as he was overwhelmed by a desire to be close to this strange, beautiful creature. She amazed him, he was blinded by her; and almost before he realized what was happening he began to reach out to another person for the first time since childhood.  
  
It took him two years before he gathered the courage to tell her how he felt, before he poured out his heart to her in anguished, struggling tones, desperate to love, even if only a little. That night she had become his savior, and nothing would ever be the same for him again, even though it would take him a very long time to absorb what she taught him, to learn to appreciate all she had given him.  
  
Like romance.  
  
As she opened the door he presented her with the bouquet of wild white roses he held and she smiled with pleasure, melting his heart. "For you."  
  
"Oh, Scott, they're lovely." She buried her nose in the petals, inhaling their sweet, delicate fragrance. "Come in," she said warmly, letting him into the foyer. "I'll just put these in some water."  
  
He followed her to the kitchen. "You're breathtaking tonight."  
  
"Why, thank you, kind sir," she replied, filling a vase at the sink. "You look quite dashing yourself."  
  
He blushed, not used to compliments. "Shall we go?" he asked, helping her with her wrap.  
  
"Yes," she said, picking up her clutch and taking his arm. "We shall."  
  
[pic]  
  
Kurt had chosen to go for coffee with Natalie instead of out to dinner with Scott and Jean because he felt it was a more comfortable, casual, and appropriate setting. Life dictated that he and Amanda spend long periods of time apart, and so neither angered if the other involved him or herself in harmless flirtation to ease the loneliness, but because he was finding himself unduly attracted to this woman he saw no reason for further temptation.  
  
He wondered why he was so attracted. She was smart and pretty, with shiny dark hair and an athletic figure, but he was often surrounded by extraordinary women without a problem. She had a husky voice that sounded drenched in sorrow as she told him of her failed marriage and her cross country move from San Francisco; but she laughed easily and often, and she had told him he looked like a young Errol Flynn. On the other hand, there was nothing wrong with his relationship with Amanda, they were having no problems that he knew of, and he had loved her deeply since childhood.  
  
He finished his cappuccino and leaned forward across the table. "That's fascinating," he remarked as Natalie related the way in which she had come into possession of the Book Nook. "So it's always been your dream to have a bookstore?"  
  
"Ever since I was a little girl." She wiped biscotti crumbs on her napkin. "What's your dream? What do you want more than anything in the world?"  
  
"To be accepted for who I am."  
  
"And who are you?"  
  
"Why do you want to know?" he asked, guarded but still outwardly warm. There was something vaguely wrong, something he couldn't put his finger on.  
  
"I like you," she said coyly. "I want to know all about you."  
  
"I thought you weren't looking for a relationship."  
  
"I'm looking for a friend, but if something else comes from it...." She brushed her fingertips against the back of his hand, ever so lightly.  
  
"I'm sorry, Natalie," he said. "I'm very much in love with my girlfriend."  
  
"All the good ones are taken," she sighed, visibly disappointed. "Well, I should be getting home. I have to feed my fish."  
  
He suddenly felt terrible. "I'd like to be friends, as long as that's all it is."  
  
"That would be nice." More than nice, she thought to herself. Perfect.  
  
[pic]  
  
They went to Rick's, a well hidden blues club just outside of Tarrytown that Jean had heard of in college, but had never had a chance to visit. To her delight it still matched the description she had been given, with an amazingly colorful atmosphere and simply sublime music, the band playing everything from Billie Holliday to Luther Allison to Stevie Ray Vaughan. It had been too long since she had had a night out.  
  
"What can I get you folks?" The bartender was a huge man with a deep and jovial voice. He placed a bowl of nuts in front of them and polished the already sparkling counter.  
  
"I'll have a Toasted Almond," Jean said. She turned on the stool and crossed her legs, her elbows behind her on the bar as she surveyed the crowded dance floor and the tables beyond.  
  
"And you, sir?"  
  
"A Rob Roy, please." Scott turned to his date, noticing how exquisite she looked, and he smiled because he knew she was perfectly aware of the many eyes on her. Jean had never felt she should hide her beauty, or deny it - it was a fact of life, something wonderful to be enjoyed, just like her powers. "I like it," he said, beginning to relax.  
  
"I thought you would." She leaned toward him, taking a sip of the creamy, sweet drink that had been set before her. "It reminds me of this little place in Milan....the decor was similar. Very eclectic."  
  
"When were you in Milan?"  
  
"Remember when I had that modeling job in Venice?"  
  
"Right after Hank went to work for the Brand Corporation?" The alcohol burned his throat, an almost pleasant sensation.  
  
She nodded. "The shoot wrapped early, so some of the other girls and I skipped over to Milan. It's not as beautiful as Venice, but it has its own charm. And fabulous omelets."  
  
"Did you know Venice is sinking twice as fast as they thought it was?" he asked, feeling like a complete geek as soon as the words left his mouth.  
  
She looked fascinated. "Really? That's terrible - I just read in Archaeology that they were coming up with a way to extend the foundation poles to reach the firmer sediment in the channels. Of course, if the seas rise any further that'll only solve half the problem."  
  
God, he loved this woman.  
  
He decided not to remind her that the article she thought current was nearly two years old. "Well, the instability of the older buildings is much worse than they thought; they've decided that just repairing the supports won't be enough." He took her hand in his, kissed the knuckles. "Would you like to dance?"  
  
"I'd love to." She allowed him to lead her to the floor and slipped gracefully into his arms, her hands on his shoulders as his grasped her waist lightly; and after a moment she lay her head on his chest, content, the feel of his suit and the warmth beneath it against her cheek.  
  
She found herself remembering the first time they had danced and the subtle transformation he had undergone, becoming more self-assured, less nervous; she had realized at that moment that this was love, that she wanted to spend the rest of her life with this man and die in his arms. Later that night he had told her how he felt, and she knew it was right; without hesitation she had taken him into her heart and her bed and had never looked back.  
  
He was wondrous to her.  
  
[pic]  
  
"I've got popcorn," Kitty announced. She placed the bowl on the floor and stepped over Illyana to sit next to Peter on the couch. "Doug, can you turn the movie on, please?"  
  
"Sure." He flopped back down on the rug next to Illyana, and she grinned at him. "What?"  
  
"Jealous."  
  
He blushed violently. "Am not."  
  
"You like Kitty."  
  
"Shhhh! She'll hear you," Doug whispered, nudging her with his elbow.  
  
She dug hers in between his ribs so hard he gasped. "She's not hearing much of anything," Illyana said, flicking her hair out of her face and motioning behind her.  
  
To Doug's dismay Kitty and Peter were snuggling. And kissing. He buried his face in his arms.  
  
Illyana threw a piece of popcorn at his head.  
  
[pic]  
  
They danced until they couldn't any more, until they were dizzy from the music and the lights and each other. Hungry and eager to talk, they found an intimate table away from the bar, complete with candles and a small vase of tiger lilies. Jean spent a good fifteen minutes looking over the menu before deciding on the salad of mixed greens and grilled shrimp with feta and lime, while Scott opted for a heartier meal of cayenne crab cakes and filet mignon. The food was marvelous, the wine heavenly. The club began to settle down as they finished dinner, so they ordered dessert and lingered there in the fading candle light.  
  
"Try this," Jean offered, holding out a spoonful of lemon mousse. "It's divine."  
  
Scott smiled as he licked it off. "Delicious. Want to try some of my cake?"  
  
"I shouldn't. It looks terribly rich and I'm getting sleepy."  
  
He intertwined his fingers with hers. "I'm very glad we did this."  
  
"So am I. You're still not settled though, are you?"  
  
"Not entirely. We were so flawed in some ways....."  
  
"We were beautiful too, or have you forgotten already?"  
  
"I haven't forgotten," he said. "I could never forget. Loving you is unlike anything in the world; and I'd be a fool if I let you slip through my fingers. Will you promise me something?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"That you'll trust me. That if you're ever in trouble, you'll let me know. That you'll come to me for help."  
  
"You don't know what you're asking," she said sadly. "You don't understand."  
  
"I understand better than you think."  
  
"I can promise to try." She squeezed his hand. "It's all I'm able to give right now."  
  
"Then it's all I can ask for."  
  
[pic]  
  
This was bloody fascinating.  
  
Pete Wisdom adjusted the controls on his binoculars and crawled forward through the storm drain until he reached the end. Curled in the shadows and perfectly still, he could observe the clandestine community he had discovered without fear of immediate detection.  
  
From his current vantage point he could see eight individuals, including a young child and an elderly woman, who were sitting off to the side of his line of vision, their backs against the wall of the sewer channel. They were talking, heads bent together, and more than once he heard the child giggle, as if the old crone were telling him a funny story. The other adults, bathed in the dim light that came from their fire, appeared to be performing some strange ritual.....witchcraft perhaps....no, wait.....they were just preparing a meal. He shuddered as the woman who had been skinning the rat she held added its meat to the pot.  
  
He didn't wonder why they were living down here, in the sewers - one look at several of their misshapen faces and bodies told him they'd never be accepted anywhere else; and so they would probably be highly hostile to outsiders, making his job that much more difficult.  
  
He would have to find a way to infiltrate them.  
  
[pic]  
  
Scott walked her to the door and waited until she unlocked it before drawing her to him. Their lips met in an utterly romantic way, somewhere between love and lust, a slow, tender, passionate embrace. When they finally broke it she smiled up at him, eyes sparkling. "I had a lovely evening," she said softly. "Thank you."  
  
He was dizzy. "It was my pleasure."  
  
She leaned against him again, her glossy curls brushing against his cheek as her lips kissed his earlobe. "I'd invite you up," she whispered, "but it is our first date."  
  
"You're wicked," he laughed, and kissed her again.  
  
"But isn't that why you love me?" she asked innocently. She didn't give him a chance to respond but pressed her mouth to his for a long, breathless moment, and then she turned and disappeared into the dark house.  
  
He walked back to his car, a spring in his step, because no matter what had happened in the past or would in the future, at this moment all was right with the world.  
  
  
  
The line "He was wondrous to her" is a permutation of a line in Amanda Sichter's Love, Eater of Souls, and is used with permission. 


	12. Eleven

Risen  
  
Chapter Eleven  
  
  
  
Bobby Drake slathered mustard on his first hotdog and wolfed it down. "I really have to start bringing lunch to the office," he said. "These things taste like pigeon feet and WD-40."  
  
"Don't talk with your mouth full, Robert," Hank chided as he took his food and change from the street vendor. "It isn't couth."  
  
"Maybe I don't want to be couth," Bobby replied defensively.  
  
"You would if you knew what it meant." Hank settled his large blue frame on a park bench, smiling cheerily over the top of his glasses.  
  
"Don't start, Mr. Smarty-Pants. I bet Jean doesn't know what it means either."  
  
"What don't I know the meaning of?" Jean asked as she sat between them on the bench and took an apple out of her bag, polishing it on her slacks before taking a bite. A passing bicyclist gaped at Hank, nearly veering off the path. Jean waved to him and he blushed, pedaling away furiously.  
  
"Couth."  
  
"Polished, sauve, and well mannered," Jean answered, sticking her tongue out at Bobby. He returned the gesture.  
  
"Look," Hank exclaimed, "a Mimus polyglottos! It's the first one I've seen this season." He jumped up, peering excitedly at the closest grove of trees.  
  
"A what?"  
  
Bobby smiled smugly. "A Mockingbird."  
  
"I'm impressed. You should have gone into Ornithology."  
  
"Into what?"  
  
Hank reseated himself as the bird flew out of sight and turned his attention to Jean and Bobby, who were tussling like children and in danger off falling off the bench altogether. "My friends, the day is tranquil. Let us follow its example." They finished eating peaceably but rather hurriedly, due to Bobby's ridiculously short lunch break.  
  
"I have to be running too," Jean remarked, tossing her apple core and sandwich wrapper into the nearest trash bin. "I don't want to be late for this shoot."  
  
"I still don't know why a liberated gal like you wants to model anyway," Bobby mused. "Not that I'd ever dream of stopping you."  
  
"It isn't terribly fulfilling, but the pay is obscene."  
  
"I assume Luke resigned you? How very fortunate," Hank commented.  
  
"I know. Decent, non-pervert agents are so hard to find in this city. And he didn't really need much convincing to take me back either," she continued. "All I had to do was give him Bobby's number."  
  
Bobby paled. "You didn't...... Hey, wait - you don't even have my current number."  
  
"I know." She straightened his tie lovingly. "You're neurotic enough as it is. Did you really think I'd do that after you asked me not to?"  
  
He considered it for a moment. "Well, yes. You can be an evil wench when you want to."  
  
"Watch your mouth, dear," she laughed. "You're speaking to an evil wench who could wish you into oblivion."  
  
"I think I'll go now," he announced, kissing her on the cheek and waving goodbye to Hank. "I'll call you, Blue."  
  
"Goodbye, Bobby, enjoy the rest of the day." Hank turned to Jean. "Do you desire company on your journey, my fair lady? The hospital doesn't require my humble services for another hour."  
  
"How is the hospital? Do you like doing your research there?"  
  
"It's strikingly similar to working for a corporation, although I feel more philanthropic somehow." He hailed a cab, unsurprised when the driver asked for his autograph. He obliged the man, signing "Dr. Henry McCoy, Avenger" on the back of an old lottery ticket. "How have you been feeling, Jeannie? Have you suffered any episodes of any kind? Any feelings of disassociation?"  
  
"I'm not insane, Hank," she told him firmly. "Not any more."  
  
"Perhaps not; but from what I've seen and read of your case, you may have a form of schizophrenia as well as MPD, both atypical due to your mutancy, and possibly stemming from childhood. Don't you think it would be prudent to make sure they don't surface again?"  
  
"So you're a psychiatrist now?"  
  
"Jean, please refrain from being difficult. I only desire to assist you in your trials."  
  
"I know you mean well." She turned suddenly, looking at him in confusion. "What do you mean, what you've read of my case? Have you been talking about this with Charles?"  
  
"We've discussed it once or twice since your return --"  
  
"I don't believe this," she muttered. "Is Moira in on it too? How dare you talk about me behind my back like that, Hank. I expect it from Charles, but from you? And Moira?"  
  
"We thought it best to debate the particulars of the situation before involving you," he explained slowly.  
  
"Have you forgotten that the 'particulars of the situation' are my mind? My life? God, Hank." She pressed her hand to her eyes, trying not to cry. "Don't you think I'm worried about this too? Do you think I don't know how fragile my psyche is? I think about it all the time. The knowledge is always there, in the back of my head. Always. It never leaves. Having people I trust do things like this makes me feel even less in control than I already do."  
  
"I apologize," he said. "I didn't realize....."  
  
"We'll talk about it later," she interrupted as the cab pulled up in front of her destination. "My eyes are going to be all red. They'll love this."  
  
"Don't fret. They won't even be able to tell you were upset."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Would I lie to you?"  
  
"No." She hugged him tightly, the fur on his neck soft against her face. "I'm sorry I'm such a mess, Hank. I don't mean to be."  
  
[pic]  
  
Scott leveled the mid-sized jet out at 32,000 feet, checked the instrument panel, and switched on the autopilot before engaging the intercom and tossing it to his co-pilot.  
  
"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Frank announced in rich, smooth tones. "My name is Captain Francis Austin, and I'll be your pilot today. If there is anything you desire to make your trip more pleasant, please do not hesitate to ask your flight attendant, the lovely and gracious Miss Branyon. The estimated length of our trip is one hour and thirty-five minutes; we shall arrive in Norfolk just after two o'clock. If you take this opportunity to look out your windows, you'll be able to see the island of Manhattan. Please enjoy your trip." He switched the intercom off and groaned loudly. "I can't stand chauffeuring these rich bastards to and from their business deals. Can't they just use the damn phone?"  
  
"If they did, we wouldn't have these jobs," Scott reminded him, although he didn't sound enthused. Running commuter flights up and down the well developed east coast just didn't hold the same thrill that flying cargo planes over the rugged and wild Alaskan countryside did; and after only two weeks in the employ of Westchester County Airport he found himself growing disinterested.  
  
"Coffee, boys?" Meg Branyon ducked into the cockpit, a styrofoam cup in each hand.  
  
"You're a doll, Meggie," Frank replied, taking his cup in one hand and reaching for Meg's bottom with the other. She stepped expertly out of the way.  
  
"Unless you want to lose them, keep your hands to yourself, Frank," she said sweetly. "Here you go, Scott."  
  
"Thanks, Meg. Are the passengers giving you any trouble?"  
  
"Not really. One old guy has the same manners deficit as poor, simple Frank here, but I can handle it."  
  
Scott took a gulp of the hot brew. "Well, if he gets too forward, let me know."  
  
"Hey, Meggie," Frank interjected, "can I buy you a drink when we off tonight?"  
  
"If you must," she sighed. "I'd better get back to work. I'll see you boys later."  
  
[pic]  
  
Early in her modeling career, Jean began to greatly prefer posing for fitness and health magazines over the better paying fashion rags; and as she grew older she tried to work exclusively within that community. She appreciated an atmosphere in which her muscle tone was looked upon as something desirable and not the antithesis of all that was beautiful; she enjoyed not being criticized because her belly was merely flat instead of concave, or because she was a natural 34B and not an artificial 36C. Occasionally the makeup artists even let the faint smattering of freckles across her nose show, a small miracle in a perfection obsessed industry.  
  
Still, it had its problems. An insanely slow photographer who rarely did promo shots and was letting it go to his head being one. "Roy? Are we going to begin any time soon? My knees are starting to hurt," she complained, trying not to shift even slightly on the hard floor.  
  
"Don't you dare move a muscle yet," he warned, adjusting the lighting. "Lara? She spoke. Touch up her lips."  
  
"I know he's horrible," the makeup artist whispered lightly, "but at least you're not dating him. I don't know what I was thinking." Jean suppressed a smile as Lara stepped aside to work on another girl and Roy turned the wind machine on, causing the wispy red hair that framed her face to fly back behind her.  
  
"Okay, now you can move," Roy decreed, his camera already clicking. "Stay on your knees. Get up on your toes....keep your feet straight. Hands right above your knees........lean forward. Keep your upper back straight....arch, keep your butt resting on your heels. Shoulders back. Tilt your chin. No! Look over there, don't focus on anything..... Look dreamy... Damn it! Not sultry, distracted! This isn't Cosmo!" His voice sweetened as she achieved exactly want he wanted. "Lovely....now hold it."  
  
She remained perfectly still as he shot a dozen more frames from various angles, relaxing only when he told her to. This was the part she enjoyed, finding favor with the crew, being the center of attention for something she was doing *right*. "Was that good?" she asked, knowing the answer.  
  
"Terrific. Now get your skinny butt back into the dressing room. I want you ready for the main set by the time I reload. We'll be over there."  
  
"Aye, aye, captain." She jogged to the noisy room that acted as both makeup and wardrobe, shedding her sneakers and close fitting shorts and teeshirt, leaving on the white bandeau style bikini top she wore beneath and pulling on matching boy-cut briefs. Lara swept her hair up and back, darkened the tones of her makeup from neutral to light, and sent her back out for numerous black and white 'artistic' photos that would be used for an article extolling the numerous benefits of meditation on the condition of the skin.  
  
Roy took five rolls of film before dismissing her to the showers. She dressed in her own clothes and took a crowded elevator to the lobby, which stopped on the seventh, sixth, fifth, and then third floor, gradually emptying until she found herself alone with a pleasant enough middle-aged man. She looked at her watch. At this rate she would have made better time on the stairs.  
  
"Pressing engagement?" her companion asked, crisp and authoritative.  
  
"No," she replied, glancing in his direction. "I'm just..." He turned toward her and she saw his eyes and it didn't matter that he had a different face, different voice, different manner; the soul was the same, black and warped and cruel. She backed away, hitting the far wall, suddenly unable to breathe, the walls closing in and blood rushing in her ears. She tried to scream and found she couldn't.  
  
"Forgive me," he said, his voice like silk, its undertones making her sick to her stomach. He stepped forward and pushed the emergency stop button. "I've startled you."  
  
If he touches me I'll die, she thought, desperately struggling to gain control of her emotions, not trusting herself to use her powers as protection when she was on the brink of hysteria. "Let...let..me go," she whispered. "Please, Jason."  
  
"I'm afraid I can't do that," he told her, moving closer. "Not until you listen to what I have to say." He smiled, the expression lending a terrifying aspect to the hate in his mind. "You're quivering - I haven't frightened you, have I?"  
  
She stood up straighter, forced her voice to be stronger. "No."  
  
"I think I have... Ironic, isn't it? The last time we met it was I who was terrified of you. With good reason," he added, "as it turned out."  
  
She felt his self-pity, hidden behind the assured exterior, and was suddenly filled with rage. He had raped her, body and mind, driven her insane, torn her life to shreds without a glimmer of remorse, and he was sorry for himself, loathing her because she had dared to stand up to him at the end. "I hate you," she spat. "I hate you more than you could ever imagine."  
  
He shook his head disapprovingly, but restarted the elevator. "Is that any way to speak to a supplicant, Jean? I haven't come here to injure you in any way. On the contrary - I've come to apologize."  
  
He wasn't even attempting to lie to her convincingly, his words blatantly at odds with his thoughts. The elevator opened and she exited quickly, heading for the street, deciding it would probably be best to play along with whatever game he was trying this time. "Have you? Fine. Get the hell away from me before I kill you."  
  
"I need your absolution. I find myself....overwhelmed with guilt at times." His tone sounded almost sincere, chilling her.  
  
She turned on her heel to face him. "That's just too goddamned bad. Do you honestly expect that I would forgive you for what you did to me?" she asked incredulously.  
  
"Not at first, no...you have too much pride for that." He came within a few feet of her, raising his hand as if to touch her hair. "But in time? I have no doubt that I'll get what I want."  
  
She couldn't stop herself from flinching. "What makes you so sure?"  
  
"I know what you want," he said simply, tipping his head to her in deference and walking away, confident the trap had been set.  
  
[pic]  
  
When Scott arrived home from work he found Charles sitting in the hall at the top of the steps, his hands clasped. "Pardon my unannounced visit," he said, "but I needed to discuss something with you in person."  
  
"It's fine," Scott replied, unlocking his apartment and letting Charles enter first. "I hope you haven't been waiting long. My last flight took longer than expected. Turbulence over Maryland." He took off his jacket and tie, laying them across the back of a chair. "Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, undoing the top buttons on his shirt.  
  
"No, thank you." Charles seated himself on the couch and looked around with interest. "I know you have been entirely on your own before, in Alaska, but this is the first time I have seen it for myself. I'm very proud of you, son."  
  
"Thank you, sir." Scott sat and waited, knowing his mentor would only speak when he was ready.  
  
"I have a dilemma," the Professor began slowly, "relating to the Reverend Stryker's trial. The X-Men have been subpoenaed by the prosecution."  
  
Scott frowned. "I knew that they were considering it; but I didn't think they would follow through. When did this happen?"  
  
"Late last night. I have already decided that the X-Men will not appear in court; it's too risky. However, Agent Duncan has informed me that the X-Men will indeed be offered immunity in return for help with their own investigation into Stryker's organization, and I think we shall oblige him." He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a business card, handing it across the coffee table to Scott. "Two weeks ago I had a meeting with this man, Matthew Murdock. I am sure he wants to help us and that his motives are pure; but I wonder if it is a mistake to bring a stranger into the fold."  
  
"If he genuinely wants to help, I doubt he would betray us. I think you should tell him we're interested." Scott paused before continuing. "I think the mistake is in refusing to answer the subpoena. The X-Men are already considered criminals by many in the government."  
  
"Which is why it doesn't matter whether or not we comply with their demands," Charles retorted. "They will think what they want about us, no matter our actions; and I could not, in good conscience, allow one of my X- Men to put themselves in a potentially volatile situation."  
  
"What if one volunteered?" Scott asked.  
  
Charles shook his head decidedly. "No. I know what you're thinking, but I couldn't allow that. There's too much at stake."  
  
"Isn't that for me to determine?"  
  
An insistant knock sounded at the door, interrupting the conversation. "It's Jean," Charles said, getting to his feet. "We'll finish this later."  
  
"I could tell her to come back," Scott began; but Charles held up his hand.  
  
"We'll talk later," he repeated, greeting Jean as he let himself out and her in. She shut the door behind him and just stood there, a haunted expression in her eyes.  
  
An icy fear shot through Scott's heart. He went to her, cupping her face in his hands. "Jean?"  
  
"Love me," she breathed. "I need you to love me."  
  
[pic]  
  
Much later, the afterglow of their lovemaking lending a most pleasant languor to his body and mind, Scott pushed his damp hair off of his forehead and sat back against the headboard, silently studying his lover. She lay sprawled on her stomach amidst the tangled bedclothes, her head resting on folded arms at the end of the bed; as his fingertips traced slow patterns on the smooth skin of her legs she turned her face to look at him.  
  
"I think I had forgotten just how incredibly good we are together," she murmured, rolling over onto her back, the sheet that partially covered her falling away. "Thank you for refreshing my memory."  
  
"It was my pleasure." He lifted her foot to his lips. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"  
  
"I don't want to ruin the perfection of this moment," she said. "Besides, whatever you're doing down there feels wonderful."  
  
He trailed his mouth up along her leg and then her stomach, kissing her long and deep when he reached her lips. "Will you tell me in the morning?" he asked. "When this moment is over?"  
  
"Yes," she promised as she pulled his body close against hers, surprised at how much she did want to tell him about her meeting with Jason. "I'll tell you about it in the morning." 


	13. Twelve

Disclaimer â€" better late than never ( Marvel owns their characters, therefore I do not. No money is being made.  
  
Acknowledgements for all chapters go to Peter, my editor, and Andy, my beta-reader. Thanks so much guys :)  
  
To the best of my knowledge, "yariman" means "bimbo"; and "sunobbu" means "snob". If I'm mistaken, I apologize.  
  
  
  
Risen  
  
Chapter Twelve  
  
Â   
  
Love rescue me  
  
Come forth and speak to me  
  
Raise me up and don't let me fall  
  
No man is my enemy  
  
My own hands imprison me  
  
Many strangers I have met  
  
On the road to my regret  
  
Many lost who seek to find themselves in me  
  
They ask me to reveal  
  
The very thoughts they would conceal  
  
Love rescue me  
  
Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â ~U2  
  
In the early morning half-light she watched him, silently studying the guarded lines of his face, the closed posture of his body; he was dreaming fitfully of her, and when she reached her hand out to stroke his forehead, to soothe him, he rolled over, curling away from her.  
  
Jean sighed and lay back, staring up at the ceiling, a dull ache in her chest. She knew that he loved her every bit as desperately as she did him, but that didn't change the fact that they had never fully trusted each other, that there was always something withheld, missing. Whether it was fate or a shared and perverse subconscious choice that resulted in their emotional detachment she couldn't say; but it seemed that whenever she wanted to be open with him he pulled away, and she found herself doing the same in return.  
  
He was so ready to believe in her, to accept her and her love despite his misgivings; and yet she was hesitating, seriously contemplating keeping the events of the day before a secret, not wanting him to think badly of her for having seen Jason, for having spoken to him.  
  
For having been drawn to his darkness even as she was sickened by it.  
  
She sat and swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cold wooden floor. Behind her Scott mumbled, incoherent, and she sent out a gentle telepathic caress, easing his distress. He was such a very *good* man....he deserved a woman so much better than she.  
  
~To speak such words is to do thyself a grave injustice, child of light and darkness. Thou hast surpassed even my wildest expectations~ The hushed voice was intangible, nebulous, and paralyzing, like the memory of a nightmare, and as it faded it left a sour, mocking aftertaste in her mind, making her gag. She rushed to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, her hands shaking with such force that she could barely manage the faucet.  
  
Chilled and bewildered, she stood there for a long time, struggling against tears. "You're not crazy," she whispered into the mirror, unable to meet the dark, stricken eyes that looked back at her. "You're not crazy."   
  
Groggy and thankful that he had the day off, Scott stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom where he relieved himself and brushed his teeth before tugging on a pair of boxer shorts. As he headed to the kitchen he picked up the trail of discarded clothing that lay strewn on the floor from the foot of his bed to the front door. "Jean?" he called. "Are you cooking?"  
  
She was standing at the stove, her hair mussed and tucked behind her ears, wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else as far as he could tell. "Good morning, love," she said, the distracted look melting off of her face as she stood on her toes to kiss him, batter dripping off of the spatula she held and onto the floor. "I thought I'd surprise you with breakfast."  
  
"You really didn't have to," he muttered, pouring himself a cup of coffee and trying not to see that she was surrounded with spilled milk, smeared butter, and egg shells. It looked as though a bag of flour had exploded near the sink. He sat down at the small table.  
  
"I'll clean it up," she assured him, her voice taking on the stern tone it always did when she was annoyed with him. "Don't worry."  
  
He caught her by the waist and pulled her onto his lap. "You're very energetic for someone who didn't get much sleep," he observed, stifling a yawn.  
  
"If you complain about how tired you are, I'm going to let you clean up this mess," she warned.  
  
"I'm not complaining," he said, kissing her. She gasped against his mouth as his hand disappeared under the shirt she wore.  
  
"Mr. Summers, you are incorrigible." She wriggled out of his arms, no longer cross with him. "You're going to be late too, if you don't hurry," she added, rescuing the pancakes from the griddle and serving them to him with gusto. "Eat up. I'll get your clothes and you can shower and shave while I iron them."  
  
"I'm not scheduled to work today," he told her, "and the Happy Homemaker routine doesn't suit you at all, although it is a bit of a fantasy fulfillment." She hit him lightly in the back of the head with a dish towel as she leaned against the counter and he turned in his chair, expectant. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong, or do I have to guess?"  
  
She looked away from him, drying her hands on the towel with excruciating slowness. "I saw Jason yesterday," she blurted out suddenly. "I saw Jason and he talked to me and it upset me very much and I didn't know what to do and so I came here."  
  
Scott dropped his fork and it clattered onto his plate as he stood. There was a terrible sinking sensation in his soul, a churning mixture of fury and dread and fear. "Mastermind approached you?" His voice was filled with rage. "I'll kill him."  
  
"You won't go near him," Jean said with an intensity that stunned him. "I don't want you getting in his way, Scott. You don't know what he's capable of."  
  
"I don't know what he's capable of?" He grabbed her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. "Jean, I was there. I watched him destroy your soul. I *felt* it through our rapport. I may not be the one he violated, but I sure as hell know what he's capable of."  
  
"You're hurting me," she said flatly.  
  
He released her, still flushed with anger. "What did he say to you?"  
  
"He said he wanted absolution, if you can believe that," she replied, slamming her heavy coffee mug into the sink. "He was just playing another one of his sick mind games with me and I don't need you to get involved."  
  
"I'm already involved."  
  
She started to say something and stopped, throwing up her hands in frustration and fuming out of the kitchen. He heard the shower turn on and followed her, against his better judgement.  
  
"This is what he wants," he said after a few minutes. "He wants us fighting. He wants to drive us apart so that he can gain leverage over you."  
  
"Yes," she snapped. "This is his master plan. We'll yell at each other about how evil he is, and then I'll run to him for comfort. That makes sense." She turned off the water and reached for a clean towel.  
  
"Not for comfort. You'd run to him out of anger." As the color drained out of her face he knew that he was right and wished it wasn't so. "The truth, Jean - you were going to leave here and confront him, weren't you?"  
  
She sat down on the edge of the tub, her head between her hands. "Jesus...he's getting to me again."  
  
"Promise me you won't go to him," he demanded. "Promise me that if he approaches you again, you'll ignore him, and leave."  
  
"I promise," she said quietly. "But I don't want you to go looking for him either, okay?"  
  
He hugged her close and kissed the top of her wet head, hoping she wouldn't realize he hadn't answered the question.   
  
"Ooomph!" Kitty winced as her body solidified and hit the concrete floor of the alley; she rolled to her feet and dashed around the corner of the building she had just been swatted through. "Hey," she yelled, "didn't anyone ever tell you it was wrong to hit girls?"  
  
The big angry purple guy paused in his distruction of a local produce market and looked at her. "I shall rule the world!" he declared, stomping towards her, his fists clenched.  
  
"A small piece of advice, my friend," Kurt volunteered, appearing in a poof of smoke atop the creature's head and flicking his tail into its left eye, eliciting a roar of pain. "It's usually best not to *announce* plans of global domination. You see, if you keep your evil machinations a secret --"  
  
"Nightcrawler! Colossus! Depart!" Ororo commanded, swooping down from the ominous clouds she had created. Kurt complied immediately; Peter paused to land one last punch before diving to safety as the sky above them literally exploded, a mass of lightning seeming to tear the heavens in two.  
  
When the smoke cleared they picked their way gingerly through the mess in the street and gathered around their now insensible opponent. Electricity crackled about him. "This is what you get for wearing a belt with a buckle the size of a Toyota," Kitty commented as the scream of police sirens grew louder.  
  
Ororo squatted down next to their foe, her gaze piercing. "I do not know who you are, or why you have chosen to attack defenseless people; but know this - the X-Men will not tolerate this behavior."  
  
Kurt switched on the image inducer he carried as they walked away, leaving the cleanup to the police. "Does anyone wish to join me for breakfast?"  
  
"I could go for a muffin." Kitty pulled her jeans and sweater back on over her uniform. "But only blueberry. And not the kind with the crumbly stuff on top."  
  
"It will be my treat," Peter offered, shifting back into his human form. Kurt clapped him on the back.  
  
"Good man. Ororo?"  
  
"I think I shall return to the mansion and debrief the Professor. Enjoy yourselves, my friends." She swept her cape around her and took off, soaring into the air and disappearing from view.   
  
Pete Wisdom gently nudged the girl standing next to him on the corner and pointed up at the sky. "It's a superhuman, Miss, is it not?"  
  
She hunched, but her eyes flickered to his face. "It might be a mutant," she whispered, turning her head away from him sharply.  
  
"Well, yes, I suppose it could be." The light changed and she hurried across the street, making him jog to keep up with her. "I've never seen either one. I have to admit I'm a stranger in this wonderful city of yours."  
  
She looked up at him shyly. "Are you from another country?"  
  
"My accent gave it away, did it?" He chuckled. "I am Lord Wycherley of Sussex. It's a pleasure to make your aquaintance, Miss --?"  
  
"Tommy," she said, awe in her voice. "Thomasina. I've never met a Lord before."  
  
He couldn't believe this garbage was actually working. The little Morlock wench would be eating out of his hand in no time. "Oh, it's not so grand," Pete announced airily, gesturing with his walking stick for good measure. "Really quite bland at times, and wearying. I'm afraid I must return next week," he continued, "and I have hardly seen any of the sights!"  
  
"I....I....could tell you some things to see," she offered hesitantly. "If you want."  
  
"I have a splendid idea! You could come with me!"  
  
Her mouth twisted itself into an odd expression, half smile, half fear. "I shouldn't though....my family doesn't like me talking to strangers. Or going places with them."  
  
"Why, Thomasina, surely you don't think I would take advantage of you?" He laughed heartily, as if the very idea was absurd.  
  
"Well....no...but...."  
  
"Then it's settled. Where shall we go first?"  
  
She looked stricken, but fairytale dreams of estates and England and Lords and fancy dresses were spinning through her mind. "We could see the Metropolitan Museum of Art," she suggested, beginning to grow excited in spite of herself.  
  
"Delightful." He offered her his arm, and after a moment she took it.   
  
*Auditory hallucinations are a cardinal and disabling symptom of schizophrenia; their pathology remains unknown. Several studies of patients with schizophrenia have correlated the intensity and content of reported auditory hallucinations with sub-vocal speech....The individual may hear noises, meaningful sounds such as music, or one or more voices speaking meaningful phrases. The sound is usually localized, the source being precise, and may be the voice of a famous person, a friend, or some unknown or mysterious person or being. In schizophrenia there is often auditory hallucination where the voices are saying something derogatory about the individual or whispering about him...*  
  
"Can I help you find something, Jean?" Charles asked, shutting the door behind him as he entered his study.  
  
She quickly shut the book she was perusing and put it back on the shelf. "No, thank you."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
She hesitated for a moment, and then nodded. "I think so. Are those clementines?"  
  
"Would you like one?"  
  
She shrugged. "Okay."  
  
He took a small orange fruit from the bowl on his desk and handed it to her; she dug her thumbnail into the skin and peeled it completely before breaking off a piece and putting it in her mouth, the juice sweet and slightly tangy against her tongue. "Thank you," she said, chewing thoughtfully. "It tastes of sunshine."  
  
He took one for himself and they ate in silence; and he found himself thinking back to when she was but a child and living with him, still and silent and wrapped up in her own secret world. In the evenings he would have her sit on the rug of this study and he read to her from Laura Ingalls Wilder and Louisa May Alcott and Frances Hodgson Burnett; and she would stare at the fireplace, captivated by the flickering light and heat, seemingly oblivious to his presence or his words; but then one night he had stopped at the part in The Secret Garden where Mary discovers Colin, and Jean had looked up at him and whispered, "More, please," her voice slow and unsteady from disuse, and it was then that he realized he loved her, her strength, her courage. She was a survivor.  
  
Charles threw his peel in the trash can and wiped his hands on his handkerchief as he glanced at his watch. "I have to be getting back to class," he told her. "If you wish to borrow any books, feel free to do so."  
  
"All right. Charles...."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Never mind." Jean hugged her arms to her chest. "It's not important."   
  
Like so many other New York law firms, Nelson & Murdock looked down upon the city from their skyscraper locale; and informed upon arriving that both Mr. Murdock and Mr. Nelson were in court and unavailable, Scott sat down to wait, absently flipping through old issues of National Geographic and exchanging small talk with the receptionist. Around lunch they wandered in, one portly and genial, the other statuesque and serious. And blind. Although he could essentially see without difficulty when he was wearing his glasses or visor, Scott felt a rush of commiseration.  
  
"Debbie called," the receptionist told them. "Mrs. Lissner wants to review her testimony again before she takes the stand tomorrow, Mr. Burns jumped bail, and Mr. Summers is here to talk to Matt about the Stryker business."  
  
"Thanks, Becky." Nelson wandered into his office; Murdock turned to face Scott.  
  
"I hope you haven't been waiting long, Mr. Summers," Matt said as they shook hands. "Why don't we talk in my office?"  
  
"I'm sorry for dropping by without an appointment," Scott apologized, seating himself across from the large oak desk. "I'll try not to take up too much of your time."  
  
"Do you mind if I eat while we talk?"  
  
"Not at all."  
  
"Then there isn't a problem." Murdock smiled and unwrapped his sandwich. "So, what exactly about the Stryker business brings you here, Mr. Summers?"  
  
"I'm an associate of Charles Xavier," he began. "We haven't yet discussed it in great length; but as of last night Charles was prepared to turn down your offer and is also planning to have the X-Men ignore the subpoena issued to them."  
  
"I told him that would be foolish. What's your personal stake in this?"  
  
Scott took a deep breath. "I'm Cyclops. I want to testify."  
  
Matt put down his lunch, dark glasses staring in Scott's direction for long, agonizing minutes. When the lawyer spoke it was with a certain degree of amusement. "I'm Daredevil," he said. "I want to represent you."   
  
Mariko rubbed the swell of her belly as she sat in the car, pleased with her slowly changing figure. Logan told her that she was even more beautiful now than she had been, and she believed him, seeing the expression in his eyes. He had always looked at her with love, with adoration and respect; but not quite like this. There was another level to his affection now; she was not merely his wife, but also the mother of his child.  
  
Beside her, Logan checked his mirrors and merged off the expressway and into Salem Center. "Are you sure you won't be bored while I'm talkin' with the Professor?"  
  
"Oh, no," she assured him. "It is warm. Ororo promised to show me the Stroll Garden in North Salem."  
  
"Just don't overdo it."  
  
"It is a Stroll Garden. Not a Run Fast Garden. I shall be fine," she said firmly.  
  
"All right, all right. You know I worry."  
  
She smiled. "I know." They turned onto Graymalkin Lane and she ran a quick brush through her ebony hair. "What do you think of Michiyo?"  
  
"It's pretty," he considered. "I still like Seiko though."  
  
"I went to school with a girl named Seiko," she said, making a face. "She was a *yariman*."  
  
He raised his eyebrows, amused. "Well, we wouldn't want our daughter to be like that."  
  
"No. I would rather she be a *sunobbu*."  
  
"I'm sure she'll be like her mother in every way possible," he quipped, and she laughed. It was rare that he treated her with anything less than the utmost reverence, and even though she would grow furious if anyone else spoke to her in such a manner, she found she didn't mind when Logan teased her.  
  
Jean was sitting on the front step as they drove up to the mansion, kitten nestled in her lap; she waved and ground her cigarette out in the ashtray that lay next to her, shutting the lid and using her powers to cleanse the air before Mariko got out of the car. "Hi," she said, walking over to greet them. "I didn't know you were coming up today."  
  
"I've got to talk to Chuck," Logan explained. "He around?"  
  
"I think he's in the conservatory with 'Ro. How's the baby?"  
  
"Very well, thank you. I felt her move last night," Mariko replied proudly, eager to share the news with another woman; and to glimpse that wistful, bittersweet expression on this particular woman's face, for although she liked Jean as a person, she didn't care for the way in which she looked at Logan.  
  
Or the way he looked back.   
  
Wide-eyed, Tommy looked over the menu that was placed before her, trying not to appear too eager. "What do you think I should get?" she asked, sipping her soda, the cold, sweet, fizzy drink alien to her senses. It tickled her nose and felt strange as it went down her throat. She liked it.  
  
"Whatever you would like," Pete replied generously, surprised but thankful for the depth of the girl's naivety. It made his job that much easier. "Where shall we go after lunch, my dear?"  
  
"I....I can't. I mean, I have to go home," she said, viewing him blankly. "My family will be worried."  
  
"Surely you can call them?"  
  
"We don't have a telephone," she said, embarrassed.  
  
"You're very fortunate. So often I wish I could simply smash mine to bits and be done with all the hassle it brings." He motioned for the waitress to bring him more coffee. "Would you object to me accompanying you home this afternoon? Perhaps I could speak to your family --"  
  
"Oh, no," she interrupted, color rushing to her cheeks. "No, you can't."  
  
"Whyever not?"  
  
"You just can't." She slouched down in the booth like a frightened animal and Pete reached out and patted her hand, afraid of losing her.  
  
"Well, then, I have another idea. After we eat, you can go home - alone - and we shall meet again tomorrow. Does that suit you?"  
  
She nodded, managing a small smile. "I guess that would be okay."   
  
Stepping out of Matt's office, Scott turned to thank him again, still processing the turn of events the last hour had taken.  
  
"Are you sure you want to go through with this?" Matt asked. "It's not too late to back out."  
  
Scott shook his head. "I understand the risks, and I'm prepared to accept them."  
  
"You're a brave man, Scott. I don't think I would have the courage to do what you're planning to." He spoke to Becky. "Call the D.A. and schedule an appointment for Mr. Summers and I. Tell them an X-Man is willing to meet with them and discuss the case against Stryker."  
  
She nodded and dialed the phone; Matt returned his attention to Scott. "I'll contact you as soon I know more. For now, go home, talk to Xavier and the others. Find out how things stand with them."   
  
Her legs comfortably crossed atop Charles' desk and her nose buried in Ripley Under Water, Jean was quite happily ignoring her temporary charges, some of whom were staring vacantly into space while the others surreptitiously passing notes to each other. She had just begun a new chapter when Sam raised his hand, clearing his throat. "Miss Grey?"  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Seeing as it's nearly the end of classes, well, may we please be excused early?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Why not?" Dani asked, more curious than challenging.  
  
"Because I'm drunk with power," Jean replied. "Now shush."  
  
Illyana twirled a lock of golden hair around her finger. "Why?"  
  
"Because I said so."  
  
"I don't think we should have to listen to you," Illyana said. "You're not our teacher. You're our *babysitter.*"  
  
With a sigh, Jean put down her book and walked over to the young Russian girl, leaning against her desk to look her straight in the eye. "You know, Illyana, you're right."  
  
Rahne looked distressed. "She is?"  
  
"I am?"  
  
"Yes, you are." Jean turned to the rest of the class. "Charles essentially asked me to sit here and watch you like you were little kids; and frankly, you're too old for that and I have no desire to be turned into a nanny. If he wants me to substitute for him, he'll just have deal with the results. I doubt you'd be having a study hall if I wasn't here," she finished. "What class are you missing?"  
  
"Latin," Doug voluteered, "we're reading Ovid."  
  
He was greeted with several groans of protest which Jean dismissed as she picked up the Professor's copy and opened to the bookmark. "We're going to play a game," she announced. "Amara, Roberto, Dani, and Sam will go up to the board and illustrate what Doug, Illyana, Rahne, and Kitty take turns reading."  
  
"Is this all right with Professor Xavier?" Rahne asked, worried.  
  
"Does everything have to be all right with Professor Xavier?" She didn't wait for an answer, but continued speaking. "You can't live your lives based on what Charles wants, on what he says to do. You have to make your own decisions. He has our best interests at heart, but he isn't infallible; and if you believe he is, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."   
  
Logan leaned forward in his seat, chin on his hands. "You got to understand my position in all this, Chuck. It's not exactly what I want either; but I got a family now. I can't be thinkin' just of myself any more."  
  
"I haven't seen you think exclusively of yourself in a very long time, my friend," Charles commented. "Perhaps I could discuss this with Mariko...."  
  
"You could try; but she's not goin' to budge and I got to respect that. Look," he continued gruffly, "it's not like I'm leavin' tomorrow, or even next month - I'm just takin' a hiatus once the baby's born. I've been here for close on five years, Prof --"  
  
"And you feel you've completed your tour of duty?" Charles asked bitterly. His head hurt.  
  
"Somethin' like that. I never signed on for life; and I've stayed a hell of a lot longer than I ever thought I would."  
  
Charles waved his hand dismissively. "Fine. Go."  
  
"Don't act like this is comin' out of nowhere and I'm betrayin' you like you think Slim did," Logan said, standing up and pushing his hands into the pockets of his jacket.  
  
"My reaction to your news has absolutely nothing to do with Scott," Charles lied. "It's a different situation altogether."  
  
"Yeah, whatever." He turned to leave and paused. "You can't keep us forever. You got to realize that sometime."  
  
Charles felt his shoulders sag. "I do realize that, Logan. I realize it more deeply than you could ever imagine."  
  
Â   
  
Â  


	14. Thirteen

Risen  
  
Chapter Thirteen  
  
When his wife's body had become too riddled with cancer to even contemplate touching, Julian Frost had taken to sleeping with his daughter; and when his son proved an utter failure as the reins of the family empire were handed to him, Julian once again found a suitable substitute in Emma, who may have been too young at thirteen to enter the world of business, but old enough to prepare, to listen to his words of wisdom.  
  
Use any means necessary, he told her. If one does not have power, one does not have anything.  
  
Suddenly, everything made sense.  
  
Two weeks later she watched calmly as she used her burgeoning telepathy to make him pick up the revolver he kept in his study, put it against his temple, and pull the trigger. He had begged her with his eyes, but she had ignored him. It was her turn to be powerful.  
  
Now, twenty years later, Emma was not only CEO of Frost Enterprises, but also Head Mistress of the Massachussett's Academy, White Queen of the Inner Circle, and one of the wealthiest, most influential women on the planet. Julian's philosophy had served her well.  
  
As the door to her private office opened she took off her reading glasses and laid her pen down atop the report she was perusing. "I thought I made it clear that I was to be left alone."  
  
"I apologize, Mistress," the guard said, trembling slightly, "but a situation arose that we thought you would want to be aware of."  
  
"And that situation is --? Spit it out."  
  
"There is a man demanding entrance to the Club," he announced. "He gives his name as Scott Summers and desires an audience with Master Wyngarde. Shall I allow such a meeting to proceed?"  
  
"Yes," she said thoughtfully, shaking her straw colored hair back behind her shoulders, "but I think I shall meet with Mr. Summers as well. Once he is shown into my office, you may tell Wyngarde to join us."  
  
"As you wish." He bowed quickly and left, only to return momentarily, followed by the tall, silent X-Man. "Mr. Summers, Mistress."  
  
"Leave us," she commanded, appraising her visitor, countering his calm anger with a half smile, a slight tilting of her hips, just the barest hint of seduction. Anything bolder would undoubtably backfire. "Welcome to the Hellfire Club," she murmurred, touching her bare collarbone with the tip of her finger. "Can I get you a drink while we wait for Jason?"  
  
"No, thank you," he said tersely, his hands clenched at his sides. "Will he be long?"  
  
"I shouldn't think so." She poured a dry sherry for herself and sipped it as she sat down on the white velvet couch, her legs crossed. "Will you have a seat at least?"  
  
"No. Thank you. This isn't a social call."  
  
He was watching her, unconsciously wanting her. If he should realize it, it would cause the most delightful mess in his head.... But Jason entered then, the bored resentment on his face becoming smug anticipation when he saw Scott, and Emma found a new diversion.  
  
"Jean told you we spoke, did she?" Jason asked, lighting a cigarette. "She's simply full of surprises."  
  
"I came to tell you to stay away from her," Scott said, feeling his control slipping in the face of Jason's blatant provocation. "If you ever speak to her again, approach her, *look* at her - you'll wish you'd stayed catatonic."  
  
"Forgive me for not feeling terribly threatened," Jason replied with derision. "I defeated you once, easily. I can do it again."  
  
"Are you sure?" Scott asked, regaining his composure. The reminder of his death on the astral plane served to strengthen his resolve, not shake it, as Jason had obviously expected. "You wouldn't have stood a chance against us if you hadn't gone to such lengths to corrupt Jean and turn her on us."  
  
Jason laughed, a raspy, hollow sound. "Is that what she told you? That I corrupted her innocence? My dear boy, she wanted it. She was *hungry* for what I offered."  
  
"I don't believe you," Scott said, shaking his head. "She was vulnerable and alone and confused and you came along and pushed her over the edge."  
  
"I may have influenced her," Jason retorted, "but the seeds already were there. I didn't create the Black Queen, or Dark Phoenix, I merely guided and nourished the potential that existed." He exhaled deeply, blowing smoke into Scott's face. "Of course, I think you've always known that. You just can't bring yourself to admit it."  
  
"You don't know anything about me, or Jean --"  
  
"Or your eternal, true love," Jason interrupted, mocking. "Please spare me the rest, oh noble hero. You'll not manage to say anything that will change my assessment of the situation in the slightest."  
  
Scott stared at him coldly. "And what is your assessment?"  
  
"Only that while you may be bedding her now, she'll come crawling back to me eventually. Women like her want to be used," he continued, crossing his arms across his chest. "They *need* it.  
  
Emma watched with amusement as Scott's fist smashed into Jason's face, blood spraying from her colleague's nose as he fell back, vainly attempting to protect himself from the sudden assault. Scott grabbed him by the collar of his shirt to keep him standing and hit him again, his stoic reserve shattered by Jason's words. "You stay away from her," he said, shaking him. "You stay away from her, or God help me...."  
  
"Emma," Jason sputtered, trying to free himself from Scott's grasp. "Help me."  
  
"May the best man win," she said sweetly, raising her glass to Scott in mock camaraderie. He turned away in disgust, throwing Jason to the floor.  
  
"You make me sick," he said as he left, hoping that Jason wouldn't say anything else, not sure he could stop himself from killing him with his bare hands if he did. "Both of you."  
  
Emma watched him leave, then turned to Jason. "Get up," she said, nudging him in the ribs with her boot. You're bleeding on the carpet."   
  
"My Lord....what is *that* supposed to be?"  
  
"It's Orpheus. Duh."  
  
"Don't be rude, Illyana."  
  
"That is not Orpheus."  
  
"Yes, it *is*, Amara. See - there's Eurydice as a shade, and that's audience of the trees, and there are the nymphs finding his head.....it's a collage."  
  
"It looks like a pumpkin in a hurricane."  
  
"We're supposed to be drawing collages?"  
  
"Yeah, like you can draw so much better, Bobby."  
  
"No, Rahne. Just pictures. Kitty's.....embellishing."  
  
"Will I get extra credit?"  
  
"Ummm.....possibly. Is it *supposed* to be abstract?"  
  
"Doug! You got chalk in my hair!"  
  
"Sorry, Dani...."  
  
"Would it look better as an abstract?"  
  
"It might make more sense...."  
  
There was a knock on the door, and Sean stuck his head into the classroom, observing the artwork scrawled across the board with interest. "Can I have a moment alone with you, Jean? When you're through?"  
  
"Oh, I'm through," she said, running a hand through her hair. "I don't know how Sarah and Charles do this every day."  
  
"It doesn't seem like it would be so bad," he said, coming to stand beside her. He clapped his hands loudly, twice, to get the attention of the students. "Were they good?" he asked her.  
  
She shrugged. "I suppose."  
  
"Class dismissed early," he announced, "because you were such darling angels." A cheer went up and they fled the room, rapidly, just in case he should change his mind.  
  
Jean picked up an eraser and began to clear the board. "What can I do for you?"  
  
"It's Moira," he said, sitting on the edge of the desk. "I think she's getting cold feet."  
  
"Don't all brides?"  
  
"So they say.... It's not like Moira though. She's usually so pragmatic. I'm afraid there's something seriously wrong."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"I don't know. She won't talk to me at all. I was hoping that she might tell you."  
  
"I'll ask her, but I can't promise anything."  
  
"That's good enough," he smiled. "Thank you, lass."  
  
"Don't mention it," she replied, wiping the chalk dust from her hands. "It's the least I can do."   
  
Mariko sipped her tea and replaced the delicately painted cup on its saucer before speaking. "I am curious," she said, "about Jean and my husband."  
  
Ororo looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"  
  
"There is something between them," Mariko said softly, her hands clasped on her belly. "I would be blind not to see."  
  
"You want me to tell you what it is." Ororo shifted uneasily, tucking her long legs further under her body and setting down her own cup.  
  
"Yes. Please."  
  
"They are close," Ororo said hesitantly. "They....understand each other."  
  
"Is it more than that?" Mariko asked, tilting her head. "I have the right."  
  
"They know there can never be more between them," Ororo said, breathing a silent curse at Logan and Jean, for whatever they had done to put such notions into his wife's mind.  
  
"That is not what I asked," Mariko interrupted, determined. "I asked if there was more."  
  
"Since Jean returned there has been nothing. She would have told me."  
  
"And before?"  
  
Ororo was silent for a moment, considering her answer. "I think there was; but it is not my place to speak of it."  
  
"I apologize if I have made you uncomfortable," Mariko responded, refilling their cups. "I have known almost since we met that Logan was a rogue; but he is honorable as well. When I saw the way in which they regarded each other....I doubted him, for the first time."  
  
"He loves you."  
  
Mariko smiled, sadly. "My father loved my mother. He had three mistresses."  
  
"Logan would never keep a mistress," Ororo said with conviction. "He could not hurt you in such an intentional way."  
  
"I know," Mariko agreed, "but it is the unintentional hurt that I fear the most."   
  
Jean found Moira in the science lab, peering intently into a microscope, her notes scattered around her like a snowfall. "I brought you coffee," she said, setting the mug on top of the counter. "No sugar and a splash of bourbon instead of cream."  
  
"You're such a dear, sweet girl," Moira grinned as she straightened up from her work. "What brings you down here?"  
  
"I spoke to Sean earlier." Jean hopped up on a stool and glanced around. "He's concerned about you."  
  
"I know," the Scotswoman said with a sigh. "It's bloody annoying."  
  
Jean suppressed a laugh. "He means well. They always do."  
  
"I take it Scott's been overly protective lately?"  
  
"He makes me feel like a child sometimes. I *hate* that."  
  
"Just for curiousity's sake - when you feel like a child, are you acting like one?"  
  
"Probably," she admitted. "I still don't like it." She sifted absently through some of the papers in front of her. "What about you and Sean? When he worries, does he have a reason?"  
  
"Oh, doubtless. The question is whether it's a good one."  
  
"If you're not as enthusiastic about the wedding as you were, you should let him know," Jean said. "He'll understand."  
  
"Will he?" She shook her head. "*I* don't even understand."  
  
"Do you want to talk about it?"  
  
"Not particularly," Moira replied, looking up from the microscope long enough to jot down a few notes. "It'll pass."  
  
Jean shifted on the stool and crossed her legs, hesitant. "Are you sure?"  
  
"Don't pry, Jean," Moira admonished. "It doesn't become you."  
  
"I know. I'm sorry. Oh," she continued, suddenly remembering. "I almost forgot - I stopped by the admissions office at Columbia the other day, to let them know that reports of my death were greatly exaggerated, and that I still wanted to finish my degree."  
  
"And --?"  
  
"To graduate I only have to attend one seminar and write my thesis; but they won't let me re-enroll unless I have an absolutely glowing letter of recommendation from a prestigious source."  
  
"Why not ask Charles? He'd have more weight, as an alumnus."  
  
Jean shrugged. "I just don't want to bother him with this."  
  
"Well, I'm not going to be writing anything at all unless you're serious," Moira told her. "You're not to get distracted by something and drop out."  
  
"I won't."  
  
"If you do, there'll be hell to pay."  
  
"I need something in my life that's normal and ordinary and sensible. I'm not going to screw this up," Jean reassured her. "I promise."   
  
It was dusk when Scott arrived at the mansion, Jason's words still raw in his ears, stinging, as he got out of his car and let himself into the house. He paused in the hall to hang up his coat and scarf, and to focus his thoughts on the matter at hand, before seeking out the Professor.  
  
He found Charles in the library with Logan, and they both fell silent as he entered. "I need to speak to Charles," Scott apologized, "but it can wait until you're finished."  
  
"I think we've said all there is to say," Logan said, looking at Charles, his eyes a mix of frustration and remorse. "He's all yours, Slim."  
  
"You might as well stay, Logan," Scott told him. "You'll be hearing about this sooner or later."  
  
Logan shrugged and settled back into his chair, regarding Scott with sudden acute interest. The man had had blood on his hands in the last few hours.... "What's goin' on?"  
  
"You went to New York," Charles stated with a sick certainty. "After I specifically asked you not to become involved with this."  
  
"I spoke at length with Murdock," Scott began. "I'll be testifying against Stryker." He paused. "Under my real name."  
  
"You are a foolish, thoughtless man," Charles spat, overwhelmed as this latest blow threatened to knock him over the edge. Everything was spinning out of his control, and there seemed to be nothing he could do to stop it. "I have given my life to teach you, to save you from those who would kill you without a second thought, and now you throw it all away." His hands gripped the back of the chair he was leaning against so hard that his knuckles turned white. "Leave."  
  
"We'll talk later," Scott said quietly. "When you're not as upset."  
  
"No," Charles replied, cold. "You have turned your back on me, not once, but twice. You are no longer welcome in my house." He looked away as Scott flinched in pain, leaving the room without another word.  
  
Logan looked at Charles in disbelief. "What the hell is wrong with you, Chuck?" He was greeted with silence. "Fine. I don't want to know. But if you're tryin' to alienate everyone who loves you, you're doin' a damn good job." He stalked from the room, catching up with Scott in the foyer.  
  
"I'm doing the right thing," he said.  
  
"For gettin' lynched," Logan retorted. "Look, I've been in battle with you a hundred times - I know you would never let your actions harm anyone else; but I've got to tell you that what you're doin' is suicide."  
  
"Logan, I've been hiding who and what I am almost my entire life, and it hasn't made any difference at all in the minds of those that hate mutants." He buttoned his coat and took one last look around as he stepped outside. "Maybe it's time to try something else." 


	15. Fourteen

Risen  
  
Chapter Fourteen  
  
Â   
  
Although Michael Forrester had prosecuted numerous cases involving mutants during his six years as assistant district attorney, the current Stryker trial was the first in which the defendant was human. He found himself fighting an uphill battle against his own office as the DA worried about re- election and the public relations people wrung their collective hands, thinking about the ramifications of trying to convict a well loved evangelist.  
  
The question of whether the accused was human, mutant, superhuman, or inhuman was inconsequential in Michael's estimation. A murderer was a murderer, and in this instance, there was no doubt that Stryker fell into that category, even though he had brazenly pleaded not-guilty at the arraignment.  
  
Adjusting the cuffs of his suit, Michael approached the witness stand. "Sir, please state your name for the record."  
  
"My name is Officer Thomas Pyfer," he replied, leaning into the microphone.  
  
"You're a member of the NYPD?"  
  
"Yes, sir. I've been with the fifteenth precinct for five years now."  
  
"You were recently injured, were you not?" Michael asked, casually clasping his hands behind his back.  
  
The opposing counsel stood. "Objection. Relevancy."  
  
Michael sighed. "Your Honor, if Miss Elder would allow me the courtesy of actually questioning my witness, I'll establish relevancy."  
  
"Proceed."  
  
"Officer Pyfer, were you recently injured?"  
  
"Yes, I was," he answered, straightening his posture and speaking to the jury. "On November 30th of last year I was shot in the chest while attempting to protect a young girl from an assailant."  
  
"Were you able to identify this assailant, Officer Pyfer?"  
  
"Not by name, no."  
  
"By appearance?"  
  
"He was a Purifier."  
  
"Objection," Tracy Elder interjected. "Your Honor, this is conjecture on the part of the witness. I sincerely doubt that he identified his assailant as a 'Purifier' at the time of the incident." Beside her, Stryker sat as he always did, silent and contemplative, his hands held together almost in prayer.  
  
"Withdrawn," Michael said quickly. "Let me phrase this another way, Officer. When you first saw this man, did you have any idea who or what he was?"  
  
"No."  
  
"When did you first become aware that he may have had connections with the Purifiers?"  
  
"Not until after I was shot," he admitted. "I was told by the man who brought me to the hospital. Later, my partner told me what had happened in Madison Square Garden that night. He also showed me some magazine articles and photographs. I recognized the man who shot me as one of the Reverend Stryker's security people." He looked at Tracy. "They call themselves the Purifiers."  
  
"Thank you, Officer. Can you please tell the court what happened that night? Beginning with when you first noticed something was amiss."  
  
The policeman cleared his throat. "I had finished my shift and was taking the train home, as I usually do. Within a minute of passing the Charles Street station, I heard several people yelling in the car behind mine, and I immediately went to investigate."  
  
"When you stepped into the car in question, what did you see?"  
  
"Three passengers were seated. The cause of their distress was a girl who was laying on the floor. They said she had come through the wall of the moving train."  
  
"Did you believe them?"  
  
"No," he said, shaking his head. "Who would?"  
  
"What did you do then?"  
  
"I asked her if she was okay. She looked scared, and she was breathing heavily, as if she had been running. She told me that men were chasing her, and trying to kill her."  
  
"How did you respond to that?"  
  
"I didn't have a chance. Two men dressed as Purifiers shot their way through the roof of the train. They were heavily armed. I pushed the girl behind me and went for my gun," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "That's when the first one shot me." He touched his hand to his breastbone. "Here. He meant to kill me."  
  
"Objection. The witness isn't qualified to make that kind of judgement."  
  
"Overruled. Continue, Mr. Forrester."  
  
"Thank you, your Honor." He stood next to the witness stand, leaning against the edge. "Officer Pyfer, I realize that this is very difficult for you; but I need you to tell the court everything you remember about what happened after you were shot."  
  
Pyfer took a deep breath. "I was passing in and out of consciousness, but I remember that the little girl had pulled me onto her lap, and was trying to stop the bleeding with her hands. I could hear the man who shot me threatening her." He looked at the jury. "He said that my death would appear to be at her hands. I was trying to move...to protect her somehow, but I must have passed out instead. The next thing I remember I was outside, being taken to the hospital. The girl was still there, but she was with an older man. He told me that the men on the train were assassins in the employ of the Reverend William Stryker."  
  
Michael nodded, crossing his fingers mentally. He did not want to ask the next question, but if he didn't Elder would, and the damage would be tenfold. "Officer Pyfer, this man who took you to the hospital - the man who saved your life after you had been seriously wounded - do you know who he was?"  
  
"Yes. He said he was Magneto." There were several gasps of surprise; a collective murmer filling the court. Magneto's involvement with the events at Madison Square Garden had been established early on, but this information put his presence in a new, somewhat bewildering, light.  
  
Michael raised his voice over the loud crack of the judge's gavel and the buzz of fading conversation behind him. "Officer, is it your sworn testimony that you were purposefully and brutally shot in the chest while defending a little girl from assassins hired by the defendant?"  
  
"Yes it is."  
  
"And is it also your sworn testimony that your life was saved by the mutant Magneto, whom the defendant has called 'a supremely dangerous animal with no regard for human life'?"  
  
"Yes it is."  
  
"Thank you, Officer," Michael smiled. "I have no further questions."   
  
Jean finished programming the correct codes into the main computer and settled back into her chair as Cerebro descended to cover her head, already humming as it calibrated itself to her psyche. The routine psi-scan was quick, painless, and almost imperceptible; when it was finished it disengaged itself and she stood, tucking her hair behind her ears as she picked up the hard copy of the results it had automatically printed out.  
  
"If you came to watch, you're too late," she said, sensing Charles behind her. It was the first time she had spoken to him directly since his falling out with Scott, her anger only now subsiding enough to allow her to worry about him, and what had caused him to make such a rash decision.  
  
"I wanted to see the results immediately," he explained, taking off his jacket. "If you don't mind."  
  
She shrugged and handed him the papers. "If it means I won't be accused of changing the results, go ahead."  
  
"Thank you," he said, taking them and sitting down. "I don't mean to be mistrustful, but--"  
  
"You don't know me any more," she finished for him. "And after last week, and Scott...I don't think I know you either." She paused, studying him intently. "Why don't you just make it right, Charles? It isn't too late."  
  
He ignored her, turning his attention to the documents he held. "Your telepathic reflexes and control appear stellar," he said, raising his eyebrows at her audible sigh of relief. "You didn't think they would be?"  
  
"I think I expected the worst," she admitted, pulling on a loose thread on her sleeve. "Does it say anything else?"  
  
He frowned. "There is something here," he said, and she leaned over his shoulder to get a better look.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Very subtle organic abnormalities within the frontal lobe and along the lateral fissure."  
  
"They weren't there when Moira examined me on Muir," she said, a sinking feeling inside.  
  
He squeezed her hand reassuringly, their hostility temporarily forgotten. "I doubt it's anything serious, Jean; but I'll run it by Henry, just in case."   
  
"Hank! Over here! There's someone I want you to meet."  
  
Hank waved across the moderately crowded staff-only cafeteria to Dr. Tappan, a close aquaintance from anaesthesiology. "One moment, Phillip," a called back, piling his tray high with sandwiches and coffee before making his way to the table. Phillip clapped him on the back as he set the food down.  
  
"Dr. Henry McCoy, I'd like you to meet Dr. Cecelia Reyes," he said, indicating the young Puerto Rican woman who sat beside him. "Cecelia's our newest intern."  
  
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Hank said warmly. She regarded him warily, but shook the proffered hand.  
  
"I've heard a lot about you, Dr. McCoy," she told him. "You're a very respected man."  
  
"You flatter me, milady," he grinned, baring his sharp incisors as he sat and poured sugar into his coffee, pretending not to notice how she backed away ever so slightly. "What is your area of interest, Dr. Reyes?"  
  
"Virology", she replied curtly, finishing off her own sandwich. She looked at her watch. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen?"  
  
"Sure," Phillip said. "I'll see you around."  
  
"Thanks for lunch, Phillip." She nodded politely at Hank and left, her braids swinging over her shoulder.  
  
"Was it my imagination, or did she dislike me immensely?" Hank asked, beginning to eat.  
  
"Hard to tell," Phillip shrugged. "Cecelia's a odd one. Brutally smart though. And she's not hard on the eyes."  
  
"No," Hank agreed. "She certainly is not."   
  
As soon as the passengers had exited the plane, Scott made his own way into the terminal, heading straight for the Brooklyn Brew Pub. Matt was already seated at the bar, slowly sipping a pint of Guiness. "There's been a slight change of plans," he said as Scott sat down beside him. "They want you to begin testifying on Thursday."  
  
"Thursday?" Scott asked, surprised. "I haven't even spoken directly with the DA's office yet."  
  
"It seems the FBI is breathing down their necks to wrap this up so they can get their hands on Stryker," Matt explained. "They won't reveal what they have on him, but they way they're acting it's explosive. You're to meet with the FBI to sign the immunity papers tomorrow morning; and I would feel better if we went over your testimony again before you take the stand."  
  
"Will you be questioning me in court?" Scott asked, beginning to wonder for the first time if he really *was* doing the right thing. His conviction had already seriously damaged his relationship with the Professor, and he didn't think he could bear losing anyone else.  
  
Matt shook his head. "That's the ADA's territory. I'll be there to assist and make sure you're treated fairly. Having second thoughts?"  
  
"A few."  
  
"I can't say I blame you," Matt replied, finishing his beer and leaving a tip on the bar. "Just make sure they're gone by Thursday."   
  
Tomatoes and spinach, oranges, green beans, kale, romaine, potatoes, apples, and peppers. Milk and eggs, butter, juice, cheese, chicken, pork chops, roast beef, and tofu. Pasta and bread, rolls, jelly, peanut butter, almond butter, cereal - cereal that happened to be about five feet above her head. Jean anchored the shopping cart telekinetically and stood on the rung that spanned the wheels, stretching her arm up to reach the boxes and still falling short.  
  
"Wouldn't it be easier to use your powers?" Jason asked, watching her with amusement. Startled, Jean's feet slipped and the cart shot forward, sending her flying backwards. He chivalrously caught her.  
  
"Don't touch me," she spat, eyes flashing as she twisted out of his grasp. "You're still stalking me?"  
  
"I'm merely grocery shopping," he chuckled innocently. "I had no idea you'd be here."  
  
"Oh, please." She grabbed the cart and headed for the checkout. "You're damn lucky there are people around."  
  
"Again," he said, helping her unload the cart, "why don't you just use your powers?"  
  
She slapped his hand away with a magazine. "We're in a play," she told the staring cashier, then turned back to her adversary. "Jason, I could stop your heart with a thought; but you've never inspired charity in me." She looked at him more closely, noticing the fading yellow and green bruise that covered the side of his nose and his cheekbone. "What happened to your face?"  
  
"I was unjustly assaulted."  
  
"Good."  
  
"By your lover." He watched in delight as all color drained out of her face, her smattering of freckles very visible against the unnaturally pale skin.  
  
"When?" she asked, her voice deadened. She knew he was speaking the truth, but everything inside her was screaming that Scott wouldn't have gone behind her back like that, wouldn't have lied to her.  
  
"Last week. You didn't know?"  
  
"No," she said. "I didn't know."   
  
~I should have listened to Mum~ Pete mused. ~I should have been an actor~ He cleared his throat in a Lord-like manner and turned to his companion on the park bench, taking her hands in his. "Oh, Thomasina," he began, "your presence has made these last days so pleasant. Our parting tomorrow shall be like a knife in my heart."  
  
"Are you sure you can't stay longer?" She was flattered and a bit taken aback by his choice of words, never having inspired that kind of feeling in anyone.  
  
"No, I can not." He paused and tore himself from her, turning away theatrically. "If only because....I have lied to you."  
  
"You lied?" she asked, visibly crushed. "What did you lie about?"  
  
"This is very difficult," he confessed. "When first we met, I told you I had never before seen a mutant. That was the lie. I have seen a mutant." He hesitated melodramatically. "I *am* a mutant."  
  
She could have wept with joy. "Oh, George!"  
  
"Hate me if you must," he was saying, "but --"  
  
"I don't hate you!" she cried, throwing her arms around him. She looked around furtively, making sure that no one else was within hearing distance. "I'm a mutant too."  
  
"You?" he demanded, floored. "I never would have guessed!"  
  
"My whole family is," she explained. "That's why I wouldn't let you see them, but now, if you're one of us...."  
  
"I'd be honored to meet them," he said, feeling a touch of genuine guilt for what he was doing to her. "Truly honored."   
  
When Scott arrived home from work he found Jean waiting for him on the sofa, the expression on her face inscrutable. "I let myself in," she said, looking like a fallen angel in her silky white negligee, a drink in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. "I hope you don't mind."  
  
"Not at all." He took off his tie as he crossed the room, bending over to kiss her hello. "Is anything wrong?"  
  
She shook her head. "Nothing I can't handle." *Alone* she wanted to add, but refrained. As betrayed as she felt she knew that his motives had been pure; and she couldn't confront him when it would only draw him back into this nightmare. "Do you want a drink?"  
  
"That would be wonderful," he sighed, collapsing down beside her. "I'm testifying against Stryker this Thursday and I can't help thinking, what if Charles is right? What if I destroy everything that we've worked so hard to build?""  
  
She ground her cigarette out in the ashtray and poured him a drink, the subtle scent of cloves on her skin. "What exactly have we built, Scott?" she asked. "Honestly - what have the years of hit and run fighting, of hiding, gotten us? There has to be a better way."  
  
"Which is why I'm doing this," he said, kicking his shoes off. "Still, it's frightening."  
  
"Scott Summers, if you are anything, it's brave," she told him. "You can do this. I know you can."  
  
He kissed her again. "Thank you."  
  
"And don't worry about Charles," she reassured him. "He'll come to his senses eventually."  
  
"That's what I keep telling myself. Let's go out," he suggested. "They're having a Robert Mitchum festival over at the theater."  
  
"I don't feel like it tonight," she said, curling closer to him. "Let's stay in."  
  
"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked, his brow furrowed with concern. "You're...distant."  
  
"I'm just tired," she lied. "It's nothing for you to worry about. "  
  
Â  


	16. Fifteen

Risen  
  
Chapter Fifteen  
  
Â   
  
It should have been so easy to end this nightmare, so terribly effortless to kill a devil like Jason Wyngarde. A moment's concentration and a blood vessel would burst in his brain, his heart would cease to beat, his lungs would no longer draw air. A single deliberate thought and he would never be able to hurt her again.  
  
Jean's reluctance to murder him was beginning to chill her more than the thought of the act itself; and she struggled to explain it away, wanting to believe that she didn't have it within her to end his life in cold-blood; not willing to openly admit that she was hesitating only because of a base desire to see him suffer first.  
  
That need for vengeance was beginning to overshadow even her longing to do things right this time, an uncomfortable realization. Was she that weak, that bitter, that she would risk everything all over again?  
  
Yesterday she would have said no. It wouldn't have mattered how appealing the prospect of seeing Jason brought low was - the possible consequences were too dire, the chance of endangering her sanity too likely. But if she were already losing her mind....  
  
Beside her, in the dark, Scott stirred and looped an arm about her waist. "You're broadcasting," he mumbled into the pillows.  
  
"I'm sorry, baby," she said, rapidly contructing a stronger wall around her thoughts, hoping he hadn't received anything coherent. "Go back to sleep."  
  
He turned his head toward her instead. "I know you don't want to talk about it," he began, his hand squeezing her hip, "but if --"  
  
"Something's wrong." She sat up abruptly, switching on the bedside lamp, her hand pressed to her forehead as she sifted through the signals she was receiving. "It's the kids. They're....gone."  
  
Scott was already out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. "Where?"  
  
"Not earth....somewhere...else. Danielle. She's hurt. It hurts. She's at the hospital. Charles thinks she's going to die."  
  
He tossed her some clothes. "Let's go."   
  
Today would have been Adam's eleventh birthday, had he lived; and as he dressed, Nathaniel wondered what the boy would have asked for. A bicycle, no doubt, so that he could finally ride with his friends. As she did every year, Rebecca would have said no, it was too dangerous, too strenuous, and they would have bought him a new model airplane, or puzzle, or some books. Something safe. His Nana would have given him a check and a sweater, which he would have dutifully worn when she came to visit. And Nathaniel would have snuck him an action figure when no one was looking.  
  
Rebecca was taking a cake from the oven when he entered the kitchen for breakfast, its rich, chocolate smell making his stomach growl.  
  
"I tried not to bake it," she told him tremulously, "but I had to."  
  
"I understand." He poured himself a cup of coffee and touched her shoulder lightly, comfortingly. She flinched, but didn't pull away. "I'll look for candles," he said.  
  
"I made chocolate frosting," she explained, cutting the cake loose from the pan and placing it on a rack to cool. "He would always ask for raspberry, and then change his mind the day before, so I just made the chocolate."  
  
Nathaniel found the small, striped birthday candles and counted out eleven, placing them on the table in a neat row. "I think that's what Adam would have wanted."  
  
"I think so too," she nodded, wrapping her robe more tightly around her body. "Have you heard anything else from Mr. Wisdom?"  
  
"No." He got a plate out of the cupboard, slid the cake onto it and handed Rebecca the bowl of frosting and a spatula. "I've decided to go to America myself, when Mr. Wisdom has completed his task. While I'm gone, you can stay with your mother."  
  
"What if you never come back?"  
  
"I'll come back," he reassured her. "I won't leave you alone."  
  
She finished frosting the cake and set it in the middle of the table, sticking the candles into the spongy confection. Nathaniel lit the wicks. "We should sing," she said, starting to cry. "But there's no one to blow out the candles."   
  
"We have a situation," Charles announced tersely as he stood amidst the ruins of what had once been the Mid-County Medical Center ER. "Mirage was attacked on the mansion grounds by what seems to be the mystical demon bear she believes killed her parents. The other New Mutants and I accompanied her here, where we were also attacked. The bear teleported the children elsewhere, along with two civilians. Nightcrawler and Storm are attempting to locate Dr. Strange; and Danielle just came out of surgery. She'll live, but the doctors believe she'll be paralyzed. Jean....?"  
  
"I'll try," she said. "Where is she?"  
  
"ICU."  
  
When his lover had gone, Scott turned back to Charles. "Why didn't you call us? We might have been able to prevent some of this."  
  
"Jean isn't cleared for combat yet," Charles responded stiffly, "and you've made it very clear that this part of your life is over."  
  
"That doesn't mean I won't help in an emergency."  
  
"The New Mutants need to learn to work together and depend on each other. They cannot have the X-Men fight their battles for them every time things get difficult." He paused and looked around. "I'm not entirely sure how to approach the matter of the civilians. Even if the New Mutants manage to save them, there will be questions. They were seen fighting and using their powers. Perhaps it would be best to come up with an alternative scenario."  
  
"You want to make those that witnessed it believe that it never happened?" Scott shook his head. "I can't be a part of that, Professor. Besides, the press has been informed by now. A cover-up would be futile. Were they patients?"  
  
"No. A nurse and a police officer. If they are killed...."  
  
"We'll deal with that when and if it happens," Scott said, becoming worried himself. This had the potential to undo all the good that could come of the Stryker trial. "For now, we wait."   
  
Among her own people, Cal'syee Neramani had long been referred to as vanrythii, a succinct, all encompassing insult that rather pleased the deposed royal. The sainted Lilandra could have the simpering accolades of the masses; but Deathbird would have the throne.  
  
The Imperial Flagship had been shamefully easy to infiltrate. Concealing herself within a crate of rare wines, Deathbird had been smuggled aboard by one of her operatives, and released by another into the cargo bay of the vessel where she had slit both his throat and that of the soldier guarding the area.. Now she ran silently through the deserted corridors, determined to make it to the Empress's chambers before she was spotted by security.  
  
She was within sight of her destination when the siren wail cut through the air, and the guard positioned outside the door rushed her with his scimitar; with a cry of triumph she threw her javelin and caught him in the chest, his weapon clattering to the ground, the sounds of the fast approaching calvary ringing in her ears.  
  
And then the door slid open of it's own accord and Lilandra stood before her, dressed in her nightclothes and wielding the royal sword. "Deathbird! Harthiv agythii gysnt!" she exclaimed, her eyes blue pools of fire. "You have shamed the House of Neramani for the last time, and I shall see you punished for your crimes."  
  
Deathbird dropped her clasp of javelins and knelt, prostrate, at her sister's feet with mock reverence. "Forgive me, sister. I only wanted to give you this," she said, pressing her mouth to the bare foot that lay before her. Lilandra jerked away, but it was too late - the potion Deathbird had applied to her lips was already seeping into the skin.  
  
There was a horrific swirling, dissolving sensation, and Deathbird found that she was looking down upon herself, the bent head trembling and retching from the switch, and then her own brown eyes looked up at her, bewildered.  
  
"What have you done, Cal'syee?" Lilandra implored, struggling as the guards seized her. "Unhand me," she ordered, growing frantic when they did not. "I am your Empress! I demand that you release me! She has tricked you!"  
  
"Place her in the brig," Deathbird commanded, lowering her blade. "Ensure that she cannot seek help in any way, including telepathically. She shall not escape justice this time."   
  
Using her telepathy to ensure that she would not be seen by hospital personnel, Jean slipped into Dani's ICU room, being careful not to displace any of the tubes or wires that connected the girl to the life support systems. ~ Danielle, it's Phoenix. Can you hear me?~  
  
As with most non-telepaths, the answer came as if from across a great distance, hollow and faint. ~Yes.~  
  
~Are you speaking to anyone else right now?~ Jean asked, her brow furrowed. The body was unconscious, bandaged extensively, but the mind was almost too active, even for a psy. She reached down and pushed a strand of black hair off the sweat soaked forehead.  
  
~Rahne. She needs Magik. She doesn't understand.~  
  
~Magik herself can stop the bear?~  
  
~Her sword~ Dani thought anxiously. ~It's the only way.~  
  
Jean closed her eyes and saw the sword in Dani's mind, its silver blade glinting with a light almost sentient. ~Focus on the image of the sword~ she told her. ~Empty your mind of everything else and embrace it. If you are inseperable, she'll have to see its importance.~  
  
There was a moment of stillness, thick and silent, and then a rush of relief. ~She sees.~  
  
~Good. Now I need you to let go of Rahne's mind. Leave her be.~  
  
~But they need me.~  
  
~Danielle, let go or you'll be permanently paralyzed. There isn't time to argue.~ Jean felt the link waver and reached out without warning, pulling Mirage's psyche onto the astral plane and anchoring her there.  
  
~Hey!~ Dani cried indignantly. ~What do you think you're...doing?~ She trailed off, struck by the eerily beautiful realm that surrounded them, enthralled by the way the quartz-like formations that dotted the landscape seemed to dissolve when she fixed her eyes upon them, sending coils of alabaster mist snaking about her legs. ~Is this the astral plane?~  
  
~A part of it, yes.~ Jean stepped forward and took Dani's hands in her own, feeling the palpable apprehension hidden beneath her proud features. ~Do you meditate?~ she asked, easily sliding past the shields that confronted her.  
  
~Yes~ Dani gasped, unused to the sudden intrusion into her mind, as delicate as it was. She could feel bold tendrils of thought questioning, seeking, finding. Her link with Rahne was sharing in nature, not searching, and the idea of someone sifting through the layers of her very being chilled her, even though that was essentially what she did when using her own powers.  
  
Jean sensed her distrust and stiffened as well, the gradually increasing stream of consciousness that ran between them straining against the friction. ~Dani, don't fight me. Meditate. Breathe. I won't harm you.~  
  
Slowly, the tension emanating from the Native American girl dissipated enough to allow Jean to continue; and she began the intricate process of infusing enough of herself into Dani to gain the awareness she needed to recognize each cell of a body not her own, to sense which nerves were broken and torn, to send out a gentle wash of power when she found them, to telekinetically make them whole again.  
  
She was finishing up the last stitch when something seemed to quietly buckle within her, the meager but unexpected recoil severing the link.  
  
Dani opened her eyes. "What happened?"  
  
"I...I don't know." This couldn't be happening again, not now, not so soon. She felt like screaming. "How do you feel?"  
  
"Hopeful." She wiggled her toes underneath the blankets. "Thank you."  
  
"Yeah." Jean turned away, distracted. "I have to go. I'll send a doctor in."  
  
"Okay," Dani agreed, puzzled. "Phoenix?"  
  
"What?" she snapped.  
  
"Are you all right?"  
  
"No," she admitted. "I don't think I am."   
  
"And this is where they disappeared," Scott finished, edging his way past the few police officers that still remained. They seemed not to see him - Charles' doing, no doubt. Their entire group was probably shielded. Next to him, Amanda crouched down and ran her fingers across the cold tile floor.  
  
"It's jumping," she said, looking up at Kurt. "The amount of occult energy here is remarkable."  
  
"Can you track them?" Ororo asked.  
  
"Don't need to." She stood up again, her hands on her hips. "Look."  
  
There was a low boom and the air in front of them crackled and split, leaving the New Mutants and four Native American adults, two of whom looked on the verge of hysteria. Charles addressed them calmly, his mind telepathically soothing their fears. "Officer Corsi? Nurse Friedlander? Please, come with me," he requested, and they followed him meekly.  
  
"I'm going home," Illyana announced, creating a disc and stepping into it. "You're all *so* welcome," she added as she vanished.  
  
"We didn't trust her," Sam explained, sheepish under Scott's questioning glare. "We thought she was attacking us when she was only trying to help."  
  
"That will stop. Immediately," Ororo reprimanded harshly. "You do not have to like one another, but you will be civil, and you will learn to have faith in each other."  
  
"Yes, m'am."  
  
The African woman turned to the remaining adults. "And who might you be?"  
  
The man stepped forward, visibly shaken by his sudden freedom. "William Moonstar. This is my wife, Peg. We're Danielle's parents."   
  
Rough hands pushed her to the ground, held her down, shackled her wrists and ankles. She tried to resist, but the unfamiliar body was slow to respond; she tried to scream and choked on the gag Deathbird had insisted the guards put in her mouth; she reached out with her mind, desperate for Charles to hear her, to help her, to make this insanity stop, and found nothing but emptiness.  
  
Having bound her, the soldiers stepped back and she could see the disgust they held for her. "Lemrre," one said sharply, spitting down on her, the glob of saliva hitting her in the face. The rest of them laughed, and she fought back tears, refusing to give them that satisfaction.  
  
She was Lilandra.  
  
She was Empress.  
  
Nothing was going to take that away.  
  
Â  


	17. Sixteen

Risen  
  
Chapter Sixteen  
  
Â   
  
"Midway this way of life we're bound upon, I woke to find myself in a dark wood, Where the right road was wholly lost and gone."  
  
~Dante Alighieri  
  
[pic]  
  
Â   
  
"Stryker is ordinary," Magnus remarked, folding his newspaper and setting it between them on the bench. "An ordinary man, speaking ordinary words, using ordinary guns, harboring ordinary prejudices. The only power he wields is that which you give him."  
  
"No," Charles disagreed, his gaze fixed upon the courthouse. "He's not ordinary. He's a monster."  
  
"He is human."  
  
"And I am a coward," Charles said, "to not be able to face him even now."  
  
Magnus shook his head. "You are *able* to face him, Charles. You simply do not *want* to. It is much easier to sit here and speak of his evil, of the destruction he has wrought within you, while you renounce your student because he possesses the courage you lack. After all, confronting Stryker could mean coming out as a mutant, and we both know how abhorrent you find *that* possibility.  
  
"I cannot say I blame you," he continued, gesturing toward the courthouse. "Did you know that the defense is putting forth the argument that I represent all mutants, and since I am so very malevolent, they must be as well; and since malevolence should be wiped out at any cost, murdering a mutant is really an act of heroism?" He paused, a touch of amusement on his lips. "I thought they would surely recognize the intended sarcasm of 'The Brotherhood of Evil Mutants'."  
  
"Perhaps their appreciation of your wit was overshadowed by your violent, terroristic activities," Charles retorted, Magneto's words tearing through his already disheartened spirit like a bullet. He didn't think he could do this any more. "Your actions --"  
  
"We are fighting a war," Magnus interrupted, "and wars are not won with words."  
  
"They would be, if less people thought as you do." Charles turned and looked at the other man, tilting his hat down over his brow as the afternoon sun came out from behind a cloud. "Why are you doing this, Magnus? You have no faith in the state. I expected you to have taken matters into your own hands by now."  
  
"And end this already precarious peace between us?" Magnus shook his head. "No, I will not act unless Stryker is not found guilty. You have my word."  
  
*****************************************  
  
Logan dropped his cigar into the gutter and ground it out beneath the heel of his boot, his eyes flitting over the students that rushed past them on the campus. "I heard you had a bad night."  
  
"There've been worse," Jean replied dryly, sliding the papers she held into her bag before looping the strap across her body as she braced herself for the inevitable.  
  
"No doubt." He took in the dark circles under her eyes, the agitated way in which she moved. "You want to tell me what's got you so spooked?"  
  
She hesitated, hooked her thumbs into the pockets of her jeans. "I can't."  
  
"Like hell," he growled. "I'm not goin' to let you do this again." He jerked his head toward the back of his bike. "Get on."  
  
"No."  
  
"Damn it, Jeannie --"  
  
"Stop it," she said, wanting him to save her so badly it hurt. "Just stop it. Go home to your wife."  
  
"Helpin' you doesn't mean bein' unfaithful to her."  
  
"You don't believe that."  
  
"Don't tell me what I believe," he said angrily, "and I'm sorry, darlin', but I ain't buyin'. This has nothin' to do with Mariko."  
  
She took a sudden step forward, pressing her body against his, their eyes locked, mouths inches apart. He could feel her desperation, her fear, the pounding of her heart beneath the thin material of her shirt. "Tell me now," she whispered insistantly, her fingers digging into his chest as he moved his hands to her waist and held her where she was, unable to push her away. "Tell me this has nothing to do with Mariko. Tell me this has nothing to do with Scott. Tell me, and I'll tell you all my secrets. Every last one. *Tell me*."  
  
He didn't answer, and she pulled away from him, no longer meeting his eyes. "That's what I thought."  
  
*******************************  
  
"Moira is furious with me," Charles said. "She accuses me of turning the school into my own private army, of taking too many chances with the children's lives."  
  
Magnus glanced pointedly down at his newspaper, the headline of which read 'Mutant Disturbance At Westchester Hospital. Two Missing. Property Damage Estimated At $400,000.'  
  
Charles sighed. "That was self-defense and Moira knows it. The bear attacked them, and if it hadn't been for my training they all would have died. She's being unreasonable."  
  
"Perhaps. Perhaps not. What of the missing?" Magnus inquired. "Are they dead?"  
  
"No, we have them. Their experience seems to have changed them into Native Americans, and our resident sorceresses haven't been able to reverse the spell," Charles confessed. "They'll be staying at the mansion." He took a sip of his coffee. "Two more to worry about."  
  
"At the rate you seem to be alienating your existing followers, I would have thought new ones would be welcome."  
  
"How many followers do *you* have?" Charles shot back, aggravated. God forbid Moira and Magnus ever joining forces...it would be the end of him. "What *have* you been doing these last months, besides observing Stryker?"  
  
"I tracked Magda as far as Dolj," he said quietly, "before her trail disappeared again."  
  
"I'm sorry," Charles said, the other man's feelings of loss and frustration radiating toward him, still raw after all these years.  
  
"There is nothing for you to apologize for." Magnus took his pocket watch from his suit jacket and flicked it open. "Court is reconvening," he said. "Are you sure you won't join me?"  
  
"Yes. You know, this wasn't entirely unpleasant."  
  
"No, not entirely," Magnus smiled. "We shall have to do it again."  
  
*******************************  
  
For Manuel de la Rocha, no virtue was as important as a fastidious attention to detail. If you did not see every facet of a situation, every triviality, you had no chance of exerting even a modicum of influence over it; and a situation you could not influence was no fun at all.  
  
As he followed the White Queen through the lavishly decorated corridors of the Hellfire Club, Manuel looked past the absolute surety of her carriage, the flawless exterior, observed the way every statement, every movement, every word was cold, ascetic; noticed the minute twitch of her upper lip that betrayed secret thrills; perceived the subtle changes in the tone of her voice as she spoke; committing every gesture and it's meaning to memory, adding to his already considerable knowledge of the woman. She might not be as susceptible to his powers as most; but gaining control of her was too delicious a challenge to pass up.  
  
They reached the Black King's chambers and swept past the guard, Shaw rising from behind his heavy walnut desk to greet them. "You're early, Emma," he said, the slightest hint of irritation in his voice, "and you've brought a guest."  
  
"You remember Empath, don't you, Sebastian?" Emma asked smoothly. "The most....promising of the Hellions?"  
  
"Ah, yes." His demeanor shifted, became more predatory. "How nice to see you again, Mr. de la Rocha."  
  
"Sir."  
  
"I've requested Manuel's help with our little game," Emma explained. "After all, we are playing with fire."  
  
*******************************  
  
"Well?" Ororo inquired as Scott sat down beside her on the grass, absently picking at the pile of weeds she had already pulled. "How did it go?"  
  
He shrugged. "It was a boring job anyway."  
  
"It should be illegal," Ororo frowned, "to fire someone simply because they are a mutant."  
  
"I expected it," he said, reaching for an extra spade and digging a stray dandelion out by the root. "To be fair, they said they had to let me go because of the negative publicity a murder trial would bring the airline, and not because of my mutancy."  
  
"Even so, it has to hurt," she said. "I am sorry for that."  
  
"No 'I told you so'? I know you agree with Charles about the trial."  
  
"Your intentions are admirable," she explained, "but I fear the consequences of your actions. I cannot support your decision, but that does not mean I shall abandon you. " She paused and looked up at him. "I value this friendship we have forged. I would not throw it away so easily."  
  
"Thank you," he said, squeezing her hand. "For everything."  
  
"You are very welcome," she smiled. "Have you spoken to Jean today?"  
  
"No," he said, "she left for class before I woke up. Why?"  
  
"The way she left the hospital last night...she seemed so shaken. I was worried. I asked Logan to talk to her."  
  
He felt a stab of jealousy, sharp in his chest. She had told him about Jason, he told himself. She would tell him if anything else happened, if she was in trouble, if she needed help. He had to trust her.  
  
He had to.  
  
*******************************  
  
Jean noticed her hand shaking as she tried to light her cigarette, her lighter spluttering and dying; and she reached for the bowl of matches that lay on the smooth surface of the table, burning her fingers when one finally caught, her stomach twisting itself into knots when she thought about what she was doing.  
  
"Nervous?" Jason asked acidly. He finished his drink and motioned for a new one. "They won't find out you came here unless you tell them."  
  
"I know." She bit her lip, struggling to contain her revulsion for the man. "I won't tell them."  
  
"Easy to say," he smirked. "How do I know this isn't a trick?"  
  
Her eyes flickered between his face and the engraved Hellfire Club insignia that adorned the entrance to the parlor. "Very simply," she said, a calm strength spreading through her as her despair turned to anger. "You don't."  
  
Â  


	18. Seventeen

Risen  
  
Chapter Seventeen  
  
  
  
Matt Murdock shouldered his way through the throng of reporters that clogged the steps of the courthouse, his mind filtering through the barrage of smells and sounds and movement that surrounded him, searching for any hint of danger amid the commotion. "Be alert," he muttered to Scott. "I doubt we'll have any trouble; but if the press knows who you are and why you're here, you can bet Stryker's more fanatical supporters do. If I find out that the defense purposefully leaked it at the last minute...."  
  
Scott carefully scanned the crowd; his body, used to countless confrontations, automatically tensed. Beside him, Matt stopped and turned, taking hold of the closest microphone.  
  
"Any public statement at this time would violate the terms of my client's arrangement with the court," he announced loudly. "Future interviews may be granted, but *only* to those who do not block our access to the building." He smiled as a path suddenly appeared before them, the shouted questions growing more insistent. "Works like a charm."  
  
"Parker's here," Scott said in a low voice, glimpsing the Daily Bugle photographer as they reached the top of the steps. He paused. "And Reed Richards."  
  
Matt raised an eyebrow, picking up the faint hum of the Fantastic Four's hover car down at the street, the reporters growing more frenzied at the surprise appearance of a celebrity and rushing to train their cameras and microphones on him, Matt and Scott forgotten for the moment.  
  
"Ladies, gentlemen, may I please have your attention?" Reed asked, waiting patiently for them to quiet, his hands clasped behind his back. "I will make my statement and then answer any questions," he began genially. "I had planned to call a press conference later in the week to disclose news of the temporary leave of absence the Fantastic Four shall be taking from the city; but I learned of your presence here this morning and felt compelled to combine my own announcement with an brief statement from the team concerning this situation.  
  
"We find anti-mutant prejudice, which is so prreviewent in our country now, to be as abhorrent as all other forms of bias and hatred; but this trial is not about human mutant relations, or politics, or setting an example. It is about one man, his actions, and the law; and there is no doubt in our minds that justice will be done."  
  
******************************  
  
"I'll call you from Madison and let you know when I'll be back in the area," Amanda promised. "I wish I could stay longer."  
  
Kurt pulled her to him and kissed her deeply. "So do I. Still, this unexpected visit was rather...stimulating."  
  
"That it was," she murmured, kissing him again. "I'm going to be late."  
  
"They can wait."  
  
"No they can't," she laughed. "I'll be back before you even miss me."  
  
"Impossible," he protested, but he let her go and picked up her carry- on. "Which gate?"  
  
"D-3," she said, taking his arm as they weaved their way through the packed terminal. "I hope you're not late for court. I didn't think it would be this crowded."  
  
"I have plenty of time," he assured her, slowing as they passed a line of passengers waiting to board a flight to San Francisco. "Natalie?"  
  
She turned, clearly startled. "Kurt. Hi."  
  
"Amanda, this is Natalie Ryan, a neighbor of ours in Salem," he began. "Natalie, this is Amanda Sefton, my girlfriend. You didn't mention you were taking a trip, Nat."  
  
"Oh, it was a last minute decision," she explained, tucking her long dark hair behind her ears. "Just working out some last things with my ex." She smiled. "It's a pleasure, Amanda. Kurt's told me so much about you."  
  
""He hasn't *mentioned* you," she replied icily.  
  
"I must have."  
  
"You haven't."  
  
"Well, I've got to be going," Natalie interjected uncomfortably, her line beginning to move. "I'll see you around, Kurt."  
  
Amanda waited until the other woman was out of ear shot and then turned to her lover. "I don't like her."  
  
"Are you jealous?" he asked, more than a little pleased by the notion.  
  
"I'm serious, Kurt. There's something very...off about her."  
  
He frowned. "What do you mean?"  
  
"I'm not sure." She shook her head, frustrated. "How long have you known her?"  
  
"Since March. She's been to the mansion a few times, we've gone out for coffee and to a play with some of the others," he said. "She can be flaky sometimes, but she's hardly sinister."  
  
"I hope not." They reached her gate and she hugged him tightly. "Be careful, hero of mine. I don't want to see you get hurt."  
  
******************************  
  
The whispered rumors of a stranger in the Alley had preceded Sunder despite his efforts at quieting them; and when he reached Callisto's chambers he found her strapping on her weaponry, livid with rage.  
  
"Who is he?" she hissed. "Why are you allowing him to roam freely?"  
  
"He's a mutant, Cal. Tommy invited him an' says no one's to touch but her."  
  
"You don't take your orders from *Tommy*."  
  
"I know, Cal. There's somethin' funny about him. Wanted to ask you first, 's all."  
  
She threw herself back into her chair. "Bring him here," she commanded. "Alone."  
  
******************************  
  
"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"  
  
"I do." Scott lowered his hand and looked out over the courtroom, the sight of his friends and colleagues doing little to steady his nerves. What if he failed them?  
  
"You may be seated."  
  
At the prosecutorial table, Michael Forrester stood, consulting with Matt briefly before turning to Scott. "Will you please state your name and occupation for the record please?"  
  
"Scott Summers," he said. "I'm a pilot."  
  
"You lead something of a double life, do you not, Mr. Summers?"  
  
Scott suddenly found himself unable to speak, discovering that he could not give up the separation that existed between Scott Summers and Cyclops so easily, fearing that if that line was crossed he would no longer have the strength he felt as Cyclops, the confidence, and he would be left as he was before, insignificant and alone.  
  
~Scott, we believe in *you*. ~ Jean said, her mind brushing delicately against his, soothing him. ~*You* are the one who leads us and inspires us. Not a name.~  
  
"Mr. Summers?"  
  
"Yes," he said slowly. "I am a mutant. I have been a member of the X- Men since the team's inception nine years ago; and while on duty I use the name Cyclops."  
  
Michael turned to Judge Hartman. "Your Honor, the prosecution would like to remind the court that Mr. Summers is appearing as part of an ongoing federal investigation into the Stryker Crusade; and, per his arrangement with the FBI, he is not required to answer any questions concerning the X-Men that do not pertain directly to Reverend Stryker."  
  
He nodded. "Continue."  
  
"Mr. Summers," Michael asked, "where and when did you first encounter the defendant?"  
  
"On November 29th of last year, Professor Charles Xavier - who is a close associate of the X-Men - participated in a live, televised debate with Reverend Stryker at the ABC news studios," Scott explained, choosing his words carefully. "I accompanied him, as did a fellow X-Man, Storm."  
  
"Did you speak with the defendant at that time?"  
  
"No, we left as soon as the interview ended."  
  
"Before the defendant?"  
  
"I believe so."  
  
Michael stepped back, reaching for a file that Matt had held up, frowning as he opened it. "Mr. Summers, I have here a police report that states that Charles Xavier's automobile was involved in a serious accident at the corner of 72nd Street and Central Park Drive, shortly after leaving the television studio. The car, known to have been carrying Xavier, yourself, and 'Storm', was completely destroyed, and three bodies were found inside, burned beyond recognition."  
  
"Objection," Tracy Elder said hotly. "A traffic accident has absolutely nothing to do with the charges against my client."  
  
"Your Honor, we are trying to establish the defendant's character. I assure you, this is relevant."  
  
"Objection overruled."  
  
"Thank you." He turned back to Scott. "*Were* you in the automobile at the time of the accident?"  
  
"Yes," Scott said, "but it wasn't an accident."  
  
"Oh?" Michael said, feigning surprise. "What was it then?"  
  
"An attack," Scott said firmly. "The car was hit by some kind of explosive device, causing us to crash. The Professor was knocked unconscious. Storm and I attempted to pull him from the wreckage, and I was shot with what must have been some kind of tranquilizer gun."  
  
"You lost consciousness?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"When you regained consciousness, where did you find yourself?"  
  
"In a laboratory of some sort, attached to a machine, next to Storm. The Professor was also there." He swallowed hard, the memory painful. "They had put him into a sensory deprivation tank and were torturing him by feeding the pain they inflicted upon us into him. I don't know how they did it," he added, the guilt of lying overshadowed by his need to protect Charles.  
  
"Who is 'they'?"  
  
"Reverend Stryker and a man he called Phillip. I believe he was a doctor."  
  
"You recognized the defendant immediately?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What did you do?"  
  
"We were restrained...we couldn't *do* much of anything," Scott said. "We did ask him why he was doing this to us, when we had done nothing to him."  
  
"What did he say?" Michael asked softly, looking over his shoulder at Stryker, who seemed to be on the verge of losing his supernaturally calm exterior, his eyes blazing, clasped hands trembling.  
  
"He said, and I quote, 'Because you exist. And that existence is an affront to the Lord'."  
  
"Was that all?"  
  
"No. He told us how he came to feel that way."  
  
Stryker was visibly agitated now, his counsel trying to prevent him from speaking. "Objection," Tracy interjected. "I object to the witness fabricating stories damaging to my client."  
  
"You haven't *heard* the testimony yet, how can you possibly object?" Michael asked incredulously. Judge Hartman raised an eyebrow.  
  
"I agree with Mr. Forrester," he said. "Explain yourself, Miss Elder."  
  
"It's very simple, your Honor. This witness imagines himself to be something of a hero, and my client the villain who confesses all his dastardly deeds to him, like a movie cliche. It's utterly ridiculous."  
  
"It may be ridiculous," Scott commented, "but you'd be surprised at how often it happens." There were stifled laughs from the gallery and Matt shook his head sternly, biting back a smile.  
  
"The witness will refrain from addressing opposing counsel," the judge said, turning to Scott. "Can any of what the defendant allegedly told you be verified by independent sources?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Then the prosecution may continue."  
  
"Thank you," Michael said. "Please tell us everything Reverend Stryker told you, Mr. Summers."  
  
"He said that it began thirty years ago, when he was a professional soldier in the United States Army Rangers," Scott began quietly. "He was married, his wife pregnant. On a trip to visit his family in Arizona, he lost control of the car and crashed. His wife went into labor and he delivered his son." He paused, not taking his eyes from Stryker's. "He told us that the child was a monster, an abomination, that he had to kill him; and when his wife asked for her baby, he broke her neck, put both their bodies into the car, and lit a match."  
  
******************************  
  
"I love it when you sketch me," Kitty confessed. "It makes me feel beautiful."  
  
Peter looked up from his paper and smiled. "You are beautiful, Katya."  
  
"Hardly," she blushed. "But thanks."  
  
"You are," he insisted. He turned his drawing pad around. "See?"  
  
"Nope," she said obstinately. "Very pretty; but nothing like me."  
  
"You dare insult my talent?" he asked, mocking indignation. She giggled and darted out of his reach as he grabbed for her.  
  
"I'm not insulting your talent, I'm wondering if you need glasses."  
  
"My eyesight is perfect," he said, lunging forward and catching her about the waist. "And so are you."  
  
He bent and kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling small and perfect in his embrace. She moved her hips against him, almost unconsciously, trying to get closer, wanting more but unsure of how to make it happen; and then he broke away, his hands on her shoulders, keeping her at a distance. "Katya...we cannot do this."  
  
"Why not?" she demanded, ashamed to find she felt like crying. "And don't you dare tell me I'm too young. I'm *not*. I'm smart and responsible and mature and I risk my life almost every day, fighting; and no one's going to tell me I'm not ready for sex --"  
  
"You are *fifteen*."  
  
"Practically sixteen."  
  
He sighed. "Nothing would make me happier than to make love to you; but I do not want you to do something you will regret."  
  
"I won't regret it, Peter. I know I won't. I love you."  
  
There was a knock at the door and he looked up, his resentment at the interruption softening when he saw it was his sister. "What is it, Illyana?"  
  
"They're reporting on the trial from outside the courthouse," she explained. "Thought you might want to watch. We've seen Dr. MacTaggert and Mr. Cassidy so far - Roberto thinks he saw the Wasp, but no one believes him."  
  
"I wish I had been allowed to go," Kitty lamented. "What Scott's doing is just so...amazing. The Professor should be giving him a medal, not kicking him out."  
  
"No," Peter disagreed. "Scott is being very foolish. This could be disastrous."  
  
"We're trying to change the world, Piotr," Illyana reminded him. "You can't do that if you never take a chance."  
  
******************************  
  
Stunned silence filled the courtroom, all eyes fixed on Stryker who stood, his fists clenched at his sides. "You *lie*," he seethed, ignoring his lawyer's attempts to quiet him and the loud, rapid banging of the judge's gavel.  
  
"Miss Elder, your client will control himself or he will be removed from the courtroom."  
  
"Yes, your Honor," she replied, furious, pulling Stryker back down into his seat, urgently conferring with him.  
  
"Please go on, Mr. Summers."  
  
"He said that he felt lucky that his wife and son had been burned so badly that they were no longer recognizable, because it meant no one would ever discover his shame," Scott continued, leaning forward as he spoke, "but he couldn't forget what had happened. After he was discharged from the Army for excessive fighting and drinking he happened upon a magazine article written by Charles Xavier. He said that it was then that he knew God had chosen him to rid the world of all those made in the image of Satan -mutants like the two children brutally murdered in Westport Connecticut last year, like his son."  
  
"Like the X-Men?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And how exactly did he learn of the X-Men, and their association with Xavier?"  
  
"Xavier founded the original X-Men team under the auspices of the federal government," Scott explained. "FBI Agent Fred Duncan was our liaison. Stryker told me that one of his most devoted followers, an official in the bureau, gave him all the information they had on us. After reading the files, he said he became convinced that Charles was the Antichrist; and he tracked our movements until he found an opportunity to attack us."  
  
"I want to go back for a moment, to the attack on your automobile, and the three bodies found within the wreckage," Michael said thoughtfully. "Do you have any idea who they were?"  
  
"No; but I am certain that they were placed there to convince our fellow X-Men that we were dead."  
  
"Did it work?"  
  
He looked at Logan. "No. They came looking for us."  
  
"Where did they find you?"  
  
"With Storm, moments from being thrown into the Stryker Building's incinerator," Scott answered flatly. "The Reverend thought he had killed us. We were revived by Magneto."  
  
"Objection. The witness has no way of knowing what my client was thinking."  
  
"I'll rephrase," Michael conceded. "Mr. Summers, do you believe that the defendant believed you were dead?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And Magneto's actions came after he saved Officer Pyfer's life?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Interesting." Michael turned, looking at the jury. "Haven't the X-Men fought Magneto on a number of occasions?"  
  
"Yes. We disagree vehemently with his methods and philosophy."  
  
"And yet he saved you that night? After he had saved a human?"  
  
"Yes." He paused. "Magneto has committed horrible crimes, no one here disputes that. I would *never* defend his past actions - they hurt too many people, including ones I care about deeply. But I no longer believe he is the soulless demon the defense is portraying him as."  
  
"He is not typical of all mutants, is he?"  
  
"He isn't even typical of the majority."  
  
"So the defense's position that Anne Rutherford, whom they allege was a mutant, deserved to die because she was undoubtedly as purely evil as Magneto does not carry much weight with you?"  
  
"None," Scott replied. "Magneto is an individual. His belief that all humans are as evil as Reverend Stryker is every bit as reprehensible and false to me as the Reverend's blanket views on mutants."  
  
"Objection," Tracy said. "The witness is stating opinion. Again."  
  
"No one said he wasn't," Michael retorted.  
  
"Objection sustained," Hartman declared. "Mr. Forrester, please make sure your questions deal with fact, and not opinion."  
  
"Your Honor, with all due respect, the defense made this entire trial about opinion when they chose to ignore the *fact* that Anne Rutherford was a human being," Michael pointed out. "It is a *fact* that the defendant murdered her - it is their *opinion* that it shouldn't matter."  
  
"Objection!"  
  
"Withdrawn," Michael grumbled, scowling at Tracy.  
  
Judge Hartman rapped his gavel twice. "Mr. Forrester, you're in danger of being found in contempt."  
  
"I apologize, your Honor," he said stiffly. "It won't happen again."  
  
******************************  
  
Wisdom flexed his fingers defensively as he followed Sunder, Morlocks seeming to melt out of the shadows, trailing them through the tunnels. "In here," the giant said abruptly, pulling aside a large metal partition and stepping inside.  
  
Tommy gave him a small, nervous smile and squeezed his arm. "Callisto isn't so bad, George. I'll wait for you."  
  
"No, my dear, you'd best run along. I shall find you when I have finished," he told her. He hesitated and then leaned over to kiss her forehead. "You are a lovely young woman, Thomasina. Remember that." She blushed and he hurried after Sunder, the door sliding closed behind them, a knife pressing against his throat.  
  
"Let's begin by finding out who you really are, 'Lord'," Callisto growled, growing apprehensive as she felt her captive's lack of hostility. "Explain yourself!"  
  
"Bloody hell, woman, I came here to tell you who I am," he replied calmly. "Let's say you let me go, we sit down, and have a nice chat with no weapons."  
  
"I'm supposed to take your word that you're not armed?"  
  
"There's a revolver under my jacket," he admitted. "I'm not carrying anything else."  
  
She took it roughly and tucked it into her own belt, then patted him down. "What are your powers?"  
  
"I shoot heat out of my fingertips. What about you?"  
  
"You can go, Sunder," she said, giving Pete a dirty look, her short black hair falling over her good eye. "Keep the others away from here. Especially Tommy."  
  
"Are you sure, Cal?"  
  
"Yes." She waited until he had gone to sheath her blade. "Who are you?"  
  
"Isn't this better?" Pete inquired politely, taking a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. "Smoke?"  
  
"No." She didn't like this man. At all. "I'm not going to ask you again, upworlder. *Who are you*?"  
  
"Name's Wisdom," he said as he lit a cigarette for himself. "March 18th - a ten year old British boy died in the men's loo at a subway station over on 3rd. I have a picture," he added, pulling a small photograph of Adam from his suit and handing it to her. "There was evidence that the boy did not die alone; and his father - name of Dr. Nathaniel Essex - hired me to find out who was with him. My investigation led me here. There was no mistaking the stench."  
  
"You're an assassin?"  
  
"No," he chuckled. "I'm a more of a negotiator."  
  
"What are you trying to negotiate?" she asked, moving past him, her hands on her hips as she considered his words.  
  
"A meeting." Pete raised an eyebrow. "Do you know who killed the boy?"  
  
"How do you know it was murder?"  
  
"It wasn't?"  
  
"Be quiet, upworlder," Callisto reproached. "Let me think."  
  
Pete shrugged and took another drag on his cigarette. "Essex wants to meet with whoever saw his son last. Find out what really happened, get some closure."  
  
"That's all?"  
  
"As far as I know. Look," he continued. "He's human. Early 50's. Brittle and depressed. I don't think you'll have a problem defending youself. I'm more worried about *his* protection."  
  
"It wasn't murder," she said after a moment. "It was an accident. One of my people surprised the boy, and he fell. You can tell your man that."  
  
"I will; but I guarantee it won't be the last you hear from him....he's an important man...would hate it if he used his influence to bring the police down here...."  
  
"One meeting," she spat. "He comes alone."  
  
"Three armed bodyguards."  
  
"One unarmed."  
  
"Two with minimal weaponry."  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Fine. Next tuesday good for you?"  
  
She nodded reluctantly. "I'll leave escorts at the northwest entrance to the tunnels at twilight."  
  
"Tommy was right," Pete smirked. "You're not so bad."  
  
"Tommy is an idiot," Callisto said sharply, "but she is one of my people. You could've sought me out directly but you chose to play on her ignorance and with her feelings, and that's unforgivable."  
  
"Tommy gave me a chance to get to you without blood and severed bits becoming a factor," he retorted. "I needed her."  
  
"I don't want your excuses, upworlder. Just know that if I ever see you again I will tear your insides out and make you eat them." She handed him his gun, and the photograph. "You have your meeting. Now leave."  
  
Â   
  
  
  
Â  


	19. Eighteen

The lines in little * * (italics) in the first scene is taken from God Loves, Man Kills.  
  
As always, ~ ~, denotes telepathy.  
  
Scott has about a half dozen origin stories. I'm mushing them together somewhat :)  
  
Please send feedback!  
  
*********************  
  
Risen  
  
Chapter Eighteen  
  
  
  
"Mr. Summers," Michael inquired, "what did the X-Men do after leaving the Stryker Building?"  
  
"We followed Stryker to his rally at Madison Square Garden," Scott answered. "When we arrived we discovered that he was still using Xavier to power the machine he had created, this time turning it against the general population."  
  
"What were the effects of this machine against the public?"  
  
"It was designed to identify both latent and active mutants by their brainwaves," Scott explained, "and it resulted in mild to severe headaches and hemorrhaging for those affected. Several bystanders collapsed on the street. We attempted to help them; but realized the only way to stop their agony, and ours, was to destroy Stryker's invention."  
  
"Where was Magneto during this?" Michael asked as he walked slowly back to the prosecutorial table, leaning casually against it.  
  
"He had torn the roof off of the arena and was confronting Stryker directly." Scott shifted in his chair, his long fingers fiddling with his cufflinks. "The X-Men and I entered the complex through a back door; and were immediately stopped by a group of twelve Purifiers, all equipped with semi-automatic weapons."  
  
"Their purpose was to prevent you from reaching Xavier?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Was there a confrontation?"  
  
"Yes. There was a brief fight, we subdued and unarmed them, and then continued our search for Xavier. We found him behind the stage, strapped to Stryker's contraption, which we destroyed," Scott said, refusing to think about how close his strategy for disarming Charles had come to killing the man. "After we had freed Xavier, we made our way onstage. The Reverend had just pushed Anne Rutherford off of the podium."  
  
"Your Honor," Michael began, picking up a videotape and handing it to the bailiff, "with your permission, the State would like to play a portion of the news footage already entered into evidence."  
  
"Proceed."  
  
"Thank you, your Honor." Michael turned to the jury as he took a remote from within his jacket. "Ladies and gentlemen, I could have the witness recount what you are about to view; but I believe it is of the utmost importance that you see it exactly as it happened."  
  
The lights in the courtroom dimmed, and on the television that had been pulled opposite the jury, the X-Men appeared, looking exhausted and determined, quietly facing Stryker as he railed at the masses.  
  
*You're a lucky man*, they watched Cyclops say as he stepped up to the podium, Colossus and Shadowcat standing behind him. *Thanks to you, and people like you, mutants live in fear every day of our lives. And sometimes, those lives are very short. Less than a week ago, two children in Connecticut were murdered, Stryker, condemned solely for an accident of birth. Would you do that to someone because of the color of their skin, or their beliefs?*  
  
On the screen, Stryker raised his hand, lecturing. *I do nothing, Cyclops. I am an instrument of the Lord. And whatever a man's color or beliefs, he is still human. Those children, and you X-Men, are not!*  
  
*Says who?* Cyclops asked, his voice measured and calm. *You? What makes your link with heaven any stronger than mine? We have unique gifts, but no more so, and no more special, than those granted a physician or physicist, or philosopher or athlete. It could be due to an accident of nature or divine providence, who's to say? Are arbitrary labels more important than the way we live our lives, what we're supposed to be more important than what we actually are? For all you know, we could be the real human race...and the rest of you, the mutants.*  
  
Several in the jury stiffened as they watched Stryker scream into the microphone, pointing at Nightcrawler. *Human? You dare call that....thing HUMAN?!*  
  
*More human than you!* Shadowcat faced the Reverend now, breathing heavy, her small fists clenched. *Nightcrawler's generous and kind and decent! He had every reason to be bitter, every excuse to become as much of a demon inside and out. But he decided he'd rather learn to laugh instead! I hope I can be half the person he is. And if I have to choose between caring for my friend and believing in your God....then I choose my friend.*  
  
At the defense table, Stryker watched himself, emotionless, as he pulled a revolver from his suit and aimed it at the girl, her teammates coming to stand beside her. *Let those blasphemous words, girl...*, he choked, *be your epitaph.* The loud crack of a gunshot rang through the courtroom, and the televised Stryker dropped to his knees, clutching at his shoulder, his fingers bloody, and then the screen went dark.  
  
"You were very eloquent, Mr. Summers," Michael said as the lights came back on. "Very persuasive. But the defendant didn't even waver, did he?"  
  
"No," Scott replied. "I don't think he was even listening."  
  
"Objection," Tracy cut in. "Your Honor, my client *responded* to the threats made by Mr. Summers and his ilk --"  
  
"Threats? *Ilk*?" Michael rolled his eyes.  
  
"--it is ludicrous to suggest that he wasn't listening."  
  
"Objection sustained."  
  
"Mr. Summers," Michael asked, "what is your *personal* opinion of the defendant?"  
  
Scott paused. "I think Reverend Stryker is a sad and empty man," he began slowly. "But he is also very angry, very bitter, and very hateful. I think he is taking advantage of the growing prejudice against mutants to satisfy his sociopathic desires; but I don't think he would hesitate to kill any normal human who opposed him either. I think we *all* have to be afraid of this man, what he has done, and what he could do if the crimes he has already committed are condoned."  
  
"Thank you, Mr. Summers," Michael said quickly, before Tracy could object. "I have no further questions for you at this time."  
  
Hartman rapped his gavel and stood, his black robes sweeping around him. "Court is recessed for 20 minutes," he announced. "The defense may cross-examine the witness when we return."  
  
*****************************  
  
When he had turned fifteen, Scott had petitioned to be allowed to attend the local public school instead of the orphanage's own makeshift classes, designed for those children too troublesome to go anywhere else. The administration had balked at his idea, fearing that his obvious and unusual handicap would bring them unwanted attention; but Scott had persisted relentlessly, knowing that if he didn't get something else, something *more*, he would never survive. Eventually the board of directors had conceded, given him bus fare and a stern warning, and enrolled him in John Adams High, where he learned advanced geometry and trig, American history, and how to hide his pain from an entirely new group of people as they ridiculed him.  
  
And then there was Larry Mitchell. He hadn't been one of those teachers that could be found on afterschool specials, who would reach out to the outcasts, full of concern and understanding, giving them meaningful advice and support while the sound of badly played violins welled in the background. He had seemed to take Scott's presence in his physical education class as a personal affront, growing ever more frustrated by the cold indifference the boy showed to even the cruelest remarks made by the other students; until, one day, as Scott was taking a drink from the water fountain after class, Mitchell had picked up a basketball and thrown it at the back of his head, smashing Scott's nose and teeth against the metal of the spigot.  
  
"Are you going to ignore that too?" Mitchell had demanded, watching as Scott silently pulled up his ragged teeshirt and wiped the worst of the blood away. "I hit you in the *head* with a *basketball*. I broke your *nose*."  
  
"I know," Scott had replied quietly, turning to leave; but Mitchell had stopped him, pushing him against a locker and pinning him there, growing infuriated by the boy's total lack of resistance.  
  
"What I just did was *wrong*, Summers," Mitchell had told him through clenched teeth. "When you let people get away with wronging you, you're giving them permission to do it to you again, or worse, to someone else. You have to *fight back* when you see an injustice, because if you don't, no one else will. And for God's sake," he had finished, looking with disgust at Scott's almost skeletal frame, "*eat something*."  
  
It had taken a long time for those words to sink in - too long Scott sometimes thought - but once they had he had been consumed by them, even moreso than by the dream. The dream was what he fought for. The memory of Mitchell's words was what drove him to fight - and to testify against Stryker, even if it meant estranging himself from Charles.  
  
He stepped down from the witness box and crossed to the gallery, Jean throwing her arms around his neck. "My hero," she laughed, but her green eyes were filled with solemn awe; and he kissed her forehead, astonished as always by the faith she placed in him.  
  
"You did good, Scotty," Logan said as Kurt, Sean, and Moira joined them. "This might just work."  
  
"Scott?" Matt interrupted, beckoning to his client. "A moment?"  
  
"All right." Scott turned to Jean, briefly tightening his arm around her slender shoulders. "Have dinner with me tonight?"  
  
"Absolutely," she said, and kissed him lightly. "Now go see what Matt needs."  
  
"It's nice to see you two happy again, Jean," Sean commented when Scott had gone, joining Matt and Michael in one of the small rooms that bordered the judge's chambers, "and you so at ease."  
  
"Very nice," Logan agreed, slow and deliberate, making her keenly aware of the frustration and anger he felt toward her recent behavior. She ignored him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a response; but then everything seemed to close in and spin away all at once, reality splintering with a sound like thunder turned inside out, and she was someplace  
  
Else.  
  
She was cold, so very *cold*, her teeth and bones and lungs ached and ached, they would shatter if she moved; but she had to move, it was coming, it would be here soon, to take her *there*, she had to hide it mustn't find her she had to hide; she scuttled backward across the frozen rock of the floor, stricken, the manacle that bound her ankle pulling, scraping, dark blood oozing from beneath it; she realized she was naked, her skin as gray and cold and lifeless as the walls of her prison; and then it was too late it was here it was here oh God under her skin in her mind nowhere and everywhere and she began to scream and  
  
She was in the courtroom again, dizzy, Kurt's strong arms around her waist, guiding her into a chair, Logan's worried eyes all that she could see. "Have you eaten today?" Moira was demanding as she knelt in front of her, taking her pulse. She shook her head weakly and tried to breathe. It couldn't be real. It was imagination, hallucination.  
  
Not real.  
  
****************************************  
  
*--would appear that Reverend Stryker's views are so extreme that even Presidental hopeful Senator Robert Kelly, most noted for authoring the failed Mutant Registration Act, has publicly decried the embattled clergyman's methods, calling for an end to the violence, most likely because it threatens his own more moderate views on mutant issues. The popular Senator, who suffered a great loss earlier this month when close advisor Roger Whitman was killed in a boating accident on the Chesapeake Bay, is now rumored to be dating British bombshell Bet--*  
  
Charles frowned and clicked off the television, tossing the remote aside, lethargy overshadowed by a strong distaste for gossip. He forced himself to swing his legs over the side of the bed and walk to the bathroom, vaguely disgusted that he had allowed himself to waste so much of the day in depressed avoidance.  
  
He removed his pajamas and placed them neatly into the hamper as the water heated, took a clean washcloth from beneath the sink and stepped into the shower, the heat relaxing the aching muscles in his shoulders and neck as he soaped his body, wishing it were this easy to wash away mistakes and guilt, arrogance and anger.  
  
~Charles~  
  
~Jean?~ It had been so long since she had linked with him that an irrational panic welled within him; her thoughts, so often troubled and shielded, now seemed to spill forth a broken and blurred canvas of emotion. ~What's happened? Is it Scott?~  
  
There was silence on her end. ~Answer me, Jean~ he ordered. ~Has Stryker done something?~  
  
~No~ she choked. ~I just...needed you. I'm so very sorry to bother you with trivialities~  
  
She severed their connection with such force that it sent a jolt of white-hot pain ricocheting through his mind, and he grabbed at the towel bar to keep from being driven to his knees, finding that he was unable to stop his tears as easily.  
  
*************************************  
  
"I'd like to remind Mr. Summers that he is still under oath," Judge Hartman instructed, "and the defense will remember that they are prohibited from asking the witness any questions regarding the X-Men that do not directly pertain to this case. Miss Elder, you may begin."  
  
"Thank you, your Honor," she said smoothly, facing Scott, her arms crossed against her chest. "Mr. Summers, why should we believe a word you say? By your own admission, you're a liar - you've hidden your true identity every single day for nine years. Is that the action of an honest man?"  
  
"It's the action of a man legitimately fearing for his safety because of people like the defendant," Scott replied. "And I'm not hiding any more."  
  
"But you are a mutant?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You are a mutant, and you are speaking out against a man who is seeking to enlighten the world as to the evil of your kind," she said, shaking her head. "I have to question the purity of your motives."  
  
"Your logic is flawed," Scott answered calmly. "White abolitionists spoke out against white slave owners --"  
  
"I don't need a history lesson from you, Mr. Summers."  
  
"And my client is not the one on trial," Matt interjected.  
  
"Perhaps he should be."  
  
Michael sighed audibly and stood. "Objection, your Honor."  
  
"Sustained. Miss Elder, you may question the witness's character - you may not dissolve into petty remarks. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, your Honor." Tracy turned back to Scott, resting her elbow on the edge of the witness box. "The fact is that you are a mutant who belongs to a mutant organization, which may have been founded with the consent of the United States government, but which is currently operating well outside of the law. We have only your word as to the existence of this 'machine' you speak of --"  
  
"Objection," Michael said loudly. "The FBI was able to gather enough evidence against the defendant in this regard to launch an investigation. Miss Elder knows this and is deliberately misleading the jury."  
  
"As of this time, the federal investigation the prosecution refers to has brought no formal charges against my client," Tracy explained. "They may never do so. It is unjust to use their *possible* findings as proof of guilt in this case."  
  
"Objection overruled, Mr. Forrester."  
  
"Mr. Summers, do you consider yourself superior to my client? After all, he is only human."  
  
"No," Scott replied, refusing to be baited. "My mother was human. My father is. I have loved human women, had human friends, and aided humans against mutants who wished them harm. I judge people by their actions and their character, not by the make-up of their DNA."  
  
"How noble of you," she scoffed. "Mr. Summers, since I am not permitted to inquire about your activities regarding the X-Men, I would like to question you about your personal involvement with a man known as Jack Winters." She smiled as he froze. "You do remember Jack Winters, don't you Mr. Summers?"  
  
************************************  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Essex - it's Wisdom." Pete tucked the telephone under his chin, freeing his hands. "I've found what you've been looking for."  
  
There was a dull static on the other end of the line; and Pete picked up a shirt, folding it as small as possible before shoving it into his suitcase, eager to get out of this city, this country. When Nathaniel finally spoke, his voice was brisk and detached.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"There's a group of mutants living under the city, most horribly disfigured and whatnot. Call themselves the Morlocks, like something out of Wells," Pete explained, walking to the window of his dimly lit motel room and pulling the ugly polyester drapes aside. "I spoke with their leader, woman by the name of Callisto. She says one of her people was with your boy when he died; but insists it was an accident. I've arranged a meeting for you."  
  
"When?"  
  
"Tuesday, dusk. I'll fax you the details along with the photographs and notes I've taken, and you can wire payment to my account. It's been a pleasure doing business with you, doctor."  
  
Essex cleared his throat. "These...persons you mentioned...who would be willing to do what you are not...."  
  
"Interested?" Pete asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed and digging through his briefcase, coming up with a tattered address book. "720-555-1642," he told him. "Ask for Creed."  
  
************************************  
  
"Yes," Scott said. "I remember Jack." He had been told to expect this, had prepared for this, but it had still thrown him.  
  
Tracy walked back to the defense table and picked up a large sheet of paper and a newspaper, holding the paper so that the jury could see. "This is Mr. Winters' 'rap sheet' if you will. Driving under the influence. Possession of a controlled substance. Trafficking of a controlled substance. Terroristic threats. Destruction of private property. Destruction of public property. Possession of an illegal firearm. Breaking and entering. Grand larceny. Burglary. Sexual assualt. Aggravated assault. Assault with a deadly weapon." She paused dramatically. "He is now serving a life sentence for first degree murder. Two years ago he shot a father of three in the head for allegedly insulting him. It's quite a list, isn't it, Mr. Summers?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"If you judged Mr. Winters by his 'actions and character', would you find him to be a good, decent man?"  
  
"Of course not," he said sharply. "Jack Winters is evil."  
  
"Apparently he was not evil enough to stop you from befriending him, or helping him with at least one criminal venture," Tracy retorted. She handed the newspaper to the jury, the yellowed picture on the front page clearly showing an optic blast ripping through the sky towards a falling crane. "Did you overlook his violent nature because he was a mutant?"  
  
He could lie, ignore the suffocating weight and shame he felt whenever he thought of Jack, tell this woman what she expected to hear; but when he opened his mouth he found that he couldn't. "Yes. I did."  
  
"So you *do* judge people on the basis of their DNA," Tracy said, sounding almost dismayed that her line of questioning had been interrupted.  
  
"No," he clarified, swallowing hard. "I did. Once. And I learned from my mistake. I was eighteen when I met Jack Winters. I was homeless and alone; and he was the first mutant I had ever encountered. I thought I could trust him. I thought he would look out for me, because I was like him. I was weak, and I let him bully me into helping him." He nodded towards the newspaper the jury was studying. "Things went wrong. *I* was wrong."  
  
"So basically your excuse is that you were young and stupid?"  
  
"Basically."  
  
"But you're a smarter - wiser - man now, are you?"  
  
He looked at Jean, startled to see her so pale. "I'd like to think so."  
  
"Interesting," Tracy said. "Why is it that you are able to essentially agree to disagree with the terrorist Magneto, as you testified earlier, while calling Reverend Stryker a 'very hateful' man with 'sociopathic desires'? Both claim to only desire the survival of their race. What makes them different?"  
  
"The brutal murder of innocent children?" Scott ventured coldly.  
  
"Their DNA," she said smugly, taking her seat. "I'm finished with this witness, your honor."  
  
************************************  
  
When she arrived at the apartment on Stockton Street she found him waiting for her, sprawled naked across the couch and still damp from showering, a frenetic bundle of muscle and disheveled hair that watched her fixedly as she reset the security alarms. "Hey, Natalie," he drawled, taking a swig of his beer as she walked past him to the kitchen.  
  
"Don't call me that," she told him coldly, tired of the name and the tedious, unsophisticated woman she became when she wore it; and she slipped out of her dress and unhooked the small revolver strapped to her thigh, setting it on the counter as she looked around for something to eat. "Did Whitman give you any trouble?"  
  
"Didn't even see me coming," he sulked. "Had to keep it neat so I got him from behind while he was checking the engines." He laughed, almost shrilly, and she cringed as she reached for a half-empty box of triscuits. She was still confident that she would come out on top if their partnership ended badly; but these were not the kind of odds she liked. She would *need* all the luck in the world against a man who never missed.  
  
"How're things on your end?" he called. "Tired of playing hide and seek?"  
  
"It won't be too much longer," she said, bringing her crackers into the living room and perching on the arm of the couch. "Nightcrawler believes I'm harmless. His witch doesn't trust me, but she's gone. I'm under the telepaths' radar, and the others don't think of me at all." She smiled. "When I make my move, they won't even know it." 


	20. Nineteen

Big big thank yous and hugs to Andy, Peter, and Dannell for their opinions on this chapter :)  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE:Â  As those of you who have been reading this story know, it's been almost ten months since Chapter 18.Â  Many things contributed to the delay, chief among them killer writer's block.Â  For the last few chapters I have been struggling to make what I want to write now fit with what I had written before, as well as with the universe I had decided on - a wretched process.  
  
With Chapter 19 I found it impossible to force it any longer.Â  I didn't like the limits I had set on myself, and I didn't want to switch universes midstream, retconning my own story.Â  I started writing fanfic because I was sick of retcons ;)  
  
When I began the story I tried to make it mesh with the Claremont style and mood of the time.Â  I also was on an anti-angst kick, and made Jean's return much smoother and more chipper than it should have been.Â  I look back at early chapters and have no clue what I was thinking ;)  
  
I also think the quality of my writing has improved since I began this story three years ago, and feel that a long story should have a more cohesive flow.  
  
So, after much agonizing, I've decided not to finish this story.Â  Instead, I'll be starting over at the beginning of a different universe - changing what I want from the get go and having the confidence to tell the stories the way I want to.Â  I'll still deal with all the plots I began in Risen, but do it in a more managable way.Â  A succession of short stories making up a universe is infinitely easier to deal with than an Endless Epic.  
  
And I will write them, promise - no more year long sabbaticals ;)Â  I'd forgotten how much fun I used to have, writing one shots and short stories. I'm currently in a plotting frenzy and excited about fic again, something I never thought would happen.  
  
I was not going to send out this part of 19 - it's not finished and I plan to steal massively from at least one scene for another story, but I changed my mind.Â  Enjoy.  
  
Dedicated to Min, who helped me make a decision :)  
  
RISEN  
  
Chapter 19  
  
A night full of talking that hurts,  
  
my worst held-back secrets.Â  Everything  
  
has to do with loving and not loving.  
  
This night will pass.  
  
Then we have work to do.  
  
Â Â Â  ~Jelaluddin Rumi  
  
~~Â  There is electric pain, a lightning quick sting as I offer myself up for them to use; and then our psyches link, networked through the switchboard of my mind, and I feel the rush of contact, need so badly to peel back the layers of their minds, see beneath their cursory reactions to this routine invasion that I can *taste* it, feel it in my *blood* .  
  
Breathe.  
  
Open my eyes.  
  
Scott looks at me from behind dark glasses, pulls me to him, his hands cupping my face as he kisses me deep, devouring, his mouth so hard and hungry that I lose myself in him forget to  
  
Breathe.  
  
"I won't let anything happen to you," he says, and I want to tell him that he needs to pull the team out now because Charles was right, this is a trap.  
  
But I don't.  
  
And I don't know why.  
  
He takes the umbrella from beneath his seat and dashes around the front of the Rolls to open my door.Â  ~Ororo and Peter are inside~ I tell him as we cross the rain slicked street.Â  ~They say all is well.~  
  
~I wonder how long that will last?~Â  he replies, shielding his growing apprehension from the others.Â  The doorman greets us and we smile as though we belong, as though we are not the enemy; and then we are inside and a hundred psyches swirl and pulse as they wash over me, through me, lucid thought like fireflies against the night.  
  
This hunger is eating me alive.  
  
A wicked smile plays at the corners of Scott's mouth, skims across his mind. ~By the way~ he says, ~ I like your dress.~  
  
His hand is warm and dry against the bare skin of my back as he holds me close, a touch that calms, excites, and I lean into him as we dance.Â  ~I thought you would -- ~ I begin, and then  
  
I  
  
slip  
  
and there is no despair, no fear, only Jason - husband, master, he who forgives my transgressions, indulges my desires, makes me merciless.  
  
And I am merciless.  
  
Liquid fire courses through my veins as telepathy and telekinesis entwine, raw psychic energy that aches like sex; and I strike Scott down where he stands, burning him with flames that leave no mark and drinking of his love and pain and shock and guilt and fear, drinking until I am filled up and reality flickers and I want to cry because he is my everything but he should not be *this*.  
  
"Magnificent, my love," Jason purrs,Â  "but the Hellfire Club wants the X- Men alive.Â  Is Cyclops -- ?"  
  
"Had I struck to kill there would be nothing left but ashes."Â  He thrills to the violence of the assault, the detachment of my voice, as faceless guards appear, lift Scott's unconscious form and this is not *right*, this should not *be* --  
  
"Come."Â  I resist and Jason's grip on my shoulder becomes painful, threatening.Â Â  "Come," he repeats.Â  "The boy is nothing to you.Â  Nothing."  
  
His words are lies, his lies are truth, truth that bleeds, suffocates.  
  
"You are mine."Â  Fury, lust, clouding his mind, mine, as he unlocks the door to the bedroom.Â  He touches me, and something inside breaks.  
  
And I begin to fall.~~   
  
  
  
"I want to come with you," Rebecca said, studying her husband as he retrieved his passport from the wall safe, the faint light from the lamp on the desk casting shadows across his face.Â  "I want to see this man.Â  I want him to look me in the eyes and explain to me why my child is dead."  
  
"No."Â Â  She was dressed, Nathaniel noticed, dressed in black cashmere that matched her hair, her eyes, her grief.Â  But she was dressed.Â  "It's too dangerous."  
  
"But not for you."Â  She seated herself across from his desk, her anger at him soft and slow, accusing.Â  "I didn't want Adam to go to New York; but you took him anyway, remember?Â  You owe me this much, Nathaniel."  
  
"I said no."  
  
"I hate you."Â  Still soft, still slow, not sure whether she meant it.Â  "You took my son --"  
  
"He was my son too, *remember*?"Â  She turned away, staring at the wall as he knelt beside her on the floor, resting his forehead on the arm of her chair as though exhausted.Â  "I am sorry, Rebecca.Â  I am sorry that I wasn't a better father, that I'm not a better husband; but you cannot come with me."  
  
"Please," she began, then stopped, realizing his intentions.Â  Her hand went to her mouth, lips pressed against the cold metal of her wedding band. Thirteen years.Â  "You lied to me, Nathaniel."Â  Calm.Â  Not as upset as she thought she would be.Â  "You're going to kill a man."  
  
He raised his head, but she still did not look at him.Â  "You don't understand," he said softly.Â  "He's not a man."   
  
  
  
Jean leaned forward in the inlaid mahogany chair, brushing her fingertips lightly across her face to trace the lines of her nose, her brow, her cheekbones, lingering beside her mouth as she studied her reflection in the mirror, remembered falling.  
  
Remembered the sting of tar in her nose, the small, sharp points of gravel digging into her knees and the burn of the asphalt through her jeans, Annie's blood a spurting, searing river that sluiced the dust and grass and dirt from her hands, the sun too hot, too bright, a scorching pain inside her head, behind her eyes -  
  
'Shock', the doctor had said, his mouth moving too slowly for all the words she heard, her head too full.Â  He did not understand the dying not dying, the awe and the fear, the whispered sorrow that the darkness had not taken her too.Â  He did not understand what it was like to shatter, what it was like to fall.  
  
'Things will be better in the morning,' the nurses had said as they washed the blood from her hands and face and dressed her in pajamas with little frogs on them, gave her chocolate milk and something to help her sleep, left pieces of themselves embedded in her like broken glass and -  
  
And -  
  
Jason, behind her, reflected in the mirror.Â  "Shaw is waiting."  
  
She watched him without turning, kohl rimmed eyes dispassionate, strong. "Let him wait."  
  
"Such insolence."Â  He bent his head, reaching past her for the long strand of black pearls that lay on the dresser, his beard scratching against her ear when he spoke.Â  "I hope you will not regret it."  
  
"I'm not afraid of Shaw," she told him as he slipped the jewelry over her head, catching her breath as his hand paused against her collarbone.Â  "You are."  
  
She held his eyes in the mirror as he clenched his hand, his fingers pressing hard into the hollow of her throat; and then he stepped back as though stung, clutching his wounded hand.Â  She smiled, small and wicked.  
  
He was never going to hurt her again.   
  
  
  
"Got white skin, got assassin's eyes," Logan muttered, the mellow scratching whine of the song on the jukebox sinking into his bones as he set his half empty beer down on the bar and reached into his jacket for his lighter.  
  
'Standing on the gallows with my head in a noose, any minute now I'm expecting all hell to break loose'  
  
He had never intended to stay, he recalled, lighting his cigar, the thick, rich smoke filling his lungs.Â  He had never wanted to.Â  Never wanted to let go of the violence, the vicious anger that had become the only thing he could trust, the only thing he still had the strength for.  
  
The government had been paying too much attention to Alpha Flight, looking too closely, making him so uneasy there were times he thought he would lose his mind, times he thought he already had. Xavier's offer had been nothing more than a way out of a situation gone from bad to worse, the rescue mission to Krakoa the justification he had needed to desert Mac and Heather, the X-Men an easily forgotten hassle.  
  
Easy.  
  
Except he had been so restless and she had smelled so good, lime and cardamom skin cream faint against the natural scents of her body, ginger and willow, the salt of sweat, a maddening hint of musk as her breathing quickened, matched her heartbeat.  
  
Ororo's exquisite, wintry beauty was unsurpassed; but it had been Jean he found irresistible, lithe strength and earthy sensuality clad in faded blue jeans and a flimsy cotton blouse, pale skin hot under his hands as he pressed her against the tree, nothing in his world but the smell of her the taste of her the feel of her -  
  
Her mind in his.  
  
"I'm not afraid," she had said, cool green eyes stripping away the hardness and cruelty, the savagery and the heat, finding the humanity he thought he had lost and quietly enfolding his scarred and calloused hand in her own,  
  
holding it to her heart until he stopped shaking.Â  "I'm not afraid."  
  
Mariko was his love, his light, his life, the woman who had tempered the rage and the bitterness, whose gentleness and grace had soothed the animal and nurtured the man; but Jean was the woman who understood the pain, who saw the devil inside and did not turn away.  
  
And there was no way in hell he was abandoning her now.  
  
"Across the bar," Kurt said in a low voice as he returned from the men's room and picked up his own beer.Â  "Familiar, no?"  
  
Logan frowned, tapping his cigar against the rim of the ashtray as he recognized the scent, his eyes flickering to the far corner of the room and the mammoth, russet haired man attempting to inhabit it.Â  "Juggernaut."  
  
"Stealth is one trait I never thought we'd ascribe to Marko," Kurt observed dryly; but Logan only flexed his hands, instinctively, and returned to his drink, his head still thick with the past.   
  
  
  
"My Lady."Â  Shaw bowed low and graceful, a genuine, unnerving lack of hostility in his thoughts.Â  "You are a vision of elegance and beauty."  
  
"Sebastian."Â  Jean tilted her head in greeting, burnished copper curls brushing against her shoulders as she allowed him to raise her hand to his lips.Â  "I hope I haven't kept you waiting."  
  
"Not at all," he assured her, "but you must promise me something."  
  
She played absently with her necklace, her other arm held across her body, hand flat on her stomach.Â  "And what might that be?"  
  
"Only that you will continue to make Wyngarde so deliciously miserable." Shaw glanced across the lavishly decorated parlor to where Jason sat, watching them with barely contained hatred.Â  "Champagne?"  
  
Jean accepted a flute from the young, thin lipped waiter but did not drink. Sebastian's honest, pleasant manner was far more unsettling than the sly, ruthless enmity she had expected; and she strengthened her shields as he moved to introduce two of the guests.  
  
"Senator Robert Kelly and the enchanting Elizabeth Braddock," Shaw began, gripping Kelly's shoulder warmly and Jean smiled, gracious.Â  "Our Black Queen - the Lady Jean Grey."  
  
"Pleasure," Elizabeth murmured; but Jean had fixed her eyes on the Congressman, his whole being seeming to... shift with the mention of her name, a bewildering flash of something dark, something *more*, so quick she thought she must have imagined it.  
  
" - impressive, Sebastian," Kelly was saying, his mind as open and human as his face.Â  And yet -  
  
"I'm so pleased that Emma could join us," the Senator continued, helping himself to another canape as the White Queen entered the parlor.Â  "I had hoped to thank her in person for her generous contribution to my campaign."  
  
"Emma has been most generous of late," Shaw remarked.Â  He looked at Jean, the amiability of his thoughts abruptly souring.Â  "She's even brought a gift for you."  
  
"Oh?"Â  She arched a cinnamon brow questioningly, calmly, a soft flutter of unease high in her chest as she turned to greet the other telepath.  
  
And found herself face to face with Warren. 


End file.
